


Tales from the Cup and Bowl

by basically_thearlaich



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 'special' occasions, -Ish, Ahsoka is an EMT, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anakin's articulate description of the Council's decisions, Appropriate Use of the Force, Asking Consent, Bad coping mechanisms, Baking, Bar Room Brawl, Barkeep!Fives, Battle of Hogwarts, Big Boost, Boil is soft and doesn't want you to know, Clone Sex, Clones are Homonculi, Cody-and-Rex, Colt's just stubborn about it, Concord Dawn, Consent, Dark Anakin Skywalker, Dogma is a linguist, Dom/sub Undertones, Echo-and-Fives, Empire Era, Family, Fett Clan, First Time, Fluff, Force Shenanigans, Foursome - M/M/M/Other, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Group Sex, Hogwarts AU, Honesty, I Don't Even Know, IDK OKAY?, Inspired by Shakespeare, Inspired by Tate & Tennant, Intimacy, Jango digs it, Jango is a good dad, Jedi are Wild Things, Jesse and Kix are at it again, Just Add Kittens, Keldabe Kiss, Kix is grasping at straws, Living Together, Lord of the Rings, LotR AU, Magic AU, Magical Jedi, Magical quest, Making Out, Mando'a, Master Yoda's Five Star Death Chili of Doom, Master Yoda's Stew, Melida/Daan, Muggleborn Obi-Wan Kenobi, Multi, Obi-Wan is fae-ish, Onion (OC), Order 66 didn't happen, Orgy, Political Marriage, Post-War, Propositioning, RIP Domino Squad, Republic Colonizers, Rex and Wolffe are chaotic, Rule 63, Shaak knows exactly what she wants from them, The Empire fights the Sith, This is an intervention, Time Travel, Timeline What Timeline, Togruta only purr on special occasions, Tup is Other, Wolffe is so done, Wolffe's potty mouth, Writer!Echo, Yes Ahsoka drinks wine in this one, and from Colt, bar brawl, being little shits, blood and puppies, breaking under gentleness, brief description of death, chew faster, clone on clone action, clonepile, clumsy introspection, conversations in the woods, darker than the original probably, except Ahsoka stays female, excerpt from a story, feemor is sunshine, friendship with kisses, from 'we wanted to show you', he gives obi-wan an out, he tries, implied JangoWan, implied Obitine - Freeform, implied Shaak/Echo/Fives/Colt, investigation fic, mace is tired of qui-gon's shit, made up ceremonies, mand'alor as spiritual and military leader, mando culture, messy fic, needless CodyWan insert, non-sexual nudity, not-a-jedi!Ahsoka, obi-wan loves sunshine, orgiastic clone parties, ostensibly, playing it fast and loose, pleased Zabraks purr, rarepairs, sexual healing, sharing is caring, showering, sky whales, soft men, sorcerers need happy feelings for good magic, taking care of others, the jedi order is a time travelling agency, time-space-anomaly, to 'we gon' ride that', unrealistic solutions to unhealthy coping mechanisms, various pairings - Freeform, you can't take Rex and Cody anywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 58,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26154754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basically_thearlaich/pseuds/basically_thearlaich
Summary: I have a cup full of pairings and a bowl full of prompts and I want to improve my writing every day - that's it. That's the whole idea. This means various pairings. Characters from the Clone Wars.[Rating will vary but it'll be noted in the chapter-titles just in case]
Relationships: 99 (Star Wars) & Ahsoka Tano, Ahsoka Tano & CC-3636 | Wolffe, Boba Fett & Ahsoka Tano, Boba Fett & Jango Fett, Boba Fett/Ahsoka Tano, Boil & Numa (Star Wars), Boil/Waxer (Star Wars), Boil/Waxer/Wooley (Star Wars), Boost & Comet & Sinker & Ahsoka, Boost & Comet & Sinker (Star Wars), Boost/Comet, CC-1138 | Bacara & Ahsoka Tano, CC-2224 | Cody/Ahsoka Tano, CC-2224 | Cody/CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody/CT-7567 | Rex/Ahsoka Tano, CC-2224 | Cody/CT-7567 | Rex/CC-3636 | Wolffe, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura, CT-21-0408 | Echo/CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555/Ahsoka Tano, CT-21-0408 | Echo/CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555/Hardcase, CT-21-0408 | Echo/CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555/Shaak Ti, CT-5597 | Jesse/CT-6116 | Kix, CT-7567 | Rex/Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex/CC-3636 | Wolffe, Colt (Star Wars)/Shaak Ti, Dogma & CT-5385 | Tup, Dogma (Star Wars)/CT-5385 | Tup, Echo/Tup/Hardcase/Fives, Feemor & Ahsoka Tano, Feemor & Anakin Skywalker, Feemor & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hardcase/CT-5385 | Tup, Hardcase/CT-5597 | Jesse/CT-6116 | Kix, Jesse/Kix/Sinker, Jon Antilles & Ahsoka Tano, Korkie Kryze & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi/CT-7567 | Rex, Tera Sinube & Ahsoka Tano
Comments: 54
Kudos: 234





	1. [E] Can I touch you?

**Author's Note:**

> ...I have a [tumblr](https://salomewithfeather.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to come yell at me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Can I touch you?" with Hardcase and Tup
> 
> I haven't written anything explicit for a while, so please pardon the potential heavy-handedness in this while I flail to cram the prompt into 1000-something words D:

_\---_

_S_ _hit_.

He pants through clenched teeth, strains against the flimsy excuse of binders that are supposed to hold him back and _off_ the _vod_ on top of him when he knows that the only reason he’s still seated where he is, is because he’s _nice_.

Today.

 _Stars_ \--

Alright – for now. He’s being nice for now.

They aren’t even _naked_ yet and Hardcase can’t _believe_ that the rookie’s gotten him worked up like this. Without even _doing_ much.

Here they are, pretty as a picture, sitting almost primly in his lap, legs spread to bracket his own, where they are tied, just as flimsily, to the legs of the surprisingly sturdy chair they had scrounged up. Their centres pulse against each other with their almost unconscious hip-rolls, while fingers dance over Hardcase’s face, following the lines of his tattoo, stroking down his chest, his stomach, his sides. But never straying to anywhere more _interesting_.

Until now.

He wonders if this is what they meant when they invented the phrase ‘Going for the jugular’ but he doesn’t manage to hold the thought for long because teeth close around the hammering pulse in his carotid. His body bucks in reflex, hums like a live wire when the weight on top of him sinks down further to ground him. _Tantalize him_. It’s only when the teeth vanish that Hardcase realizes he’s closed his eyes.

It’s a bit of a struggle to open them again. To find the smile and the soft, amber eyes – watching as if to make certain he’s alright.

He is. But he doesn’t know how to voice that right now – when his blood is singing; when his body feels so warm it’s almost hot; when he wants to be _closer_ to his brother but also doesn’t want to move.

“You with me, ‘case?”

A nod. A strangled sound from his throat, a _need_ , too powerful to speak. If his brother doesn’t move it, there’ll be no more _nice_ for Hardcase to give to them. But it doesn’t come to that.

Steady hands reach for the zipper in the front of his blacks. Ease it – evenly and maybe slowly – downwards. Down, down, down until _finally_ those steady, strong hands brush him where he wants it most and he doesn’t disguise the sigh of satisfaction when he plants his feet to roll into the touch.

A quick kiss to his cheek; a soft thing that only registers as an apology when the weight on his thighs _vanishes_ and Hardcase leans forward to chase it with a confused exhale and opening eyes. He finds the bright amber of his brother, the small smile and the gentle fingertips that follow the stripes of his tattoo once more. It’s easier to do now. When they can part his blacks and push with just the right amount of conviction against his sternum – just enough to connect his shoulder-blades to the backrest of the chair as they trace the lines on his chest and his stomach. Arch into the lapels of his neoprene as they attempt to chase the blue further down his thighs but end up hindered by the undergarments.

His flesh sings under the caress, warm and desirous for more and Hardcase buzzes with energy, but his head is empty. Focussed, instead, on the _vod_ that kneels between his legs. Bends forward just the slightest to press their nose into the hard divots of his stomach and his skin _jolts_. Electrified and needy for contact and something about it must be infectious, because his brother groans into his chest before the broad flat of a tongue wets him from the pectoral up to his neck. Teeth set on his collarbone and the loud rip of a zipper tears through the hammering of his heart and the cotton in his head.

The wherewithal to open his eyes is slow in the coming this time – follows the gentle hands that roll his head from his prone position in his neck over his left shoulder and with his chin to his chest until the rush of blood in his ears eases and his breath comes more smoothly. When he does open his eyes, it’s to see his brother gently rise from their crouch at Hardcase’s feet, fingers rubbing at the marks that the flimsy binders had left of his ankles.

They are devastatingly beautiful when they sit down on Hardcase this time – all bare glory and tan, scarred skin, soft eyes and wavy hair and ‘case swallows when his brother lines them up perfectly until he can hook his nose under their collarbone and hide his eyes into the strong shoulder that the naked embrace allows him.

Everything is quiet for a few breaths, before one of the arms that has hooked around his shoulders releases and catches at the right end of the knot that ties Hardcase’s hands back. They don’t have to tug with more than a decisive snap before the cord unwinds from his wrists but even then he doesn’t move.

As they sit back again, smoothing their free hand up into his neck and cradling the muscle there, Hardcase remains where he is – nudges, carefully, his nose against the collarbone of his _vod_ and smiles into the soft, answering nudge he gets from the other’s nose against his temple. His cheek. A thumb caresses where teeth had set into his neck earlier and Hardcase hums before, finally, moving his hands.

“Can I touch you?” he asks softly into the skin of his _vod_. Teeth and lips caressing the dimple where collarbone meets shoulder. Their centres are slick and warm, rolling against each other as if lost in a logic unto themselves. Hair tickles his shoulders when his _vod_ moves, just a bit, just enough to look him in the eyes and ‘case _waits_ for an answer. Patient and unmoving because if the response is _no_ then he is going to find a way to keep his hands to himself.

But Tup, naked and beautiful and soft and _wet_ smiles from their perch on top of Hardcase’s thighs and leans forward to connect their foreheads just as they roll their hips far enough to feel the hot breach of Hardcase within them and smile a breathy “Yeah” into his choked exhale as they roll down again and devour him within their depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there is a concept in this chapter that's worrying which I haven't tagged and you feel it should be, please let me know.


	2. [M] Thunder and Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Write a myth) to explain thunder and lightning with Ahsoka and Boba
> 
>  **Beware the plotholes** and sorry for the plotholes.

\---

“You ready, Snips?”

“No?”

She doesn‘t _want_ this. She never asked for this. And she has been feeling hotly uneasy the whole morning already with the knowledge that she had been chosen to represent their people in the race. Her brother is careful when he tilts the flower-crown on her horns back into shape, but it tips again before she has even taken a step, wilful in its lopsided position.

“Anakin. Ahsoka.”

She swallows at the sound of her mentor’s voice. Anakin’s mentor – technically. But Anakin had never been chosen to run the race – too old and too wild when he came to them, they said – and Obi-Wan has already run it twice.

It had been Obi-Wan who’d deciphered, early on, the stubborn dreams that had come to visit her starting months ago. And it had been Obi-Wan who had taken her under his own wing before any others could vie for the privilege to do so. She knows that his actions haven’t gone uncontested, but when she steps through the wooden doorway and into the golden sheen of the morning sun, she reaches for his hands with a wordlessness that comes from a heart so full of gratitude, it might burst.

Blue-green eyes catch hers, _read_ her in the way a Sage of the Council is wont to and squeeze her fingers in his pale, scarred ones before stepping back. He lets go, but doesn’t truly move out of her orbit and an instant later she feels Anakin’s warmth at her other side. Buffeting her against the looks she fears she is going to garner.

“It is time, Ahsoka.”

She would have known without Anakin’s sombre intonation but he has always been the first to break a solemn silence. And because she has always been the first to follow him in doing so, she moves.

–

Though the sun had been fiery and golden-orange when she had first glimpsed the horizon, the short trek to the ceremonial grounds reveals the day to be a cast-over one. The silver sheen of the Mother-Light is hidden by a veneer of grey clouds that never quite _darken_ but will not let up either. She wonders if this is an omen. If the Sages of the Council might draw a conclusion of the race long before it has begun. But she dare not ask and so their walk proceeds in silence until, finally, they reach the clearing and the tense, quiet drove of her people.

Obi-Wan herds her towards the spear-headers of their conglomeration – the Sages of the Council that shall oversee the last, ritualistic steps of her inauguration to the race. Behind her back, their people cover their faces with thick, dark veils. [Nothing that happens from here on out is ever the privilege of those to see who do not participate in or guide the ritual.]

“Hidden, the face of the Mother-Light is,” the oldest Sage greets her, leaning stooped-over on his gimmer-stick. “Waiting, she is, for the end. Decide only then she will, whether to shine.”

Ahsoka doesn’t know what Master Sage Yoda could possibly mean by that, but she smiles shakily behind her own thin veil and hopes that she will do well by their Mother’s Light. A hand closes around her wrist, gently, and she looks down to see the bright, comforting hue of her hunt-mother’s skin and lets herself be drawn away. Into the circle of women that carefully strip her of her outer robe and garments until nothing remains on her but the markings on her body that she has been born with.

Even the flower crown is removed and she knows that it will be given to her race-brother at the end of the rite. A reminder of his honour and of hers. A reminder of their shared history to bridge the heat that so often surges between their peoples with memories of _something else_. [Of hope, maybe, and fondness, if she dare pray for it.]

It is only when she is bare that the fingers of her hunt-mother slip to caress her. Sticky with the sap of the _Nataiam_ and startling enough that she shocks into stillness even as the other women move to ease the slick of the holy plant over her body until she sways in her spot, clueless to whether she begun by her own design or was moved by the hum of a song that has started over the people behind her.

Her mind folds into a pleasant haze when the drums of the Sages pick up the rhythm of the song that the people have been given. She doesn’t even _truly_ see them, but the _warm-sun-strength_ of her brother's presence fills her with gratefulness when she senses him at the lead of the prayer that the people have received for her. That _he_ may have received for her.

Her feet move her away from the women by their own logic and into the curtain of smoke that the ceremonial aides have erected around the clearing. She feels the thrum of power as a billow of wind coats her in the haze of the sacred herbs that washes over her. Cleans her of that which she has been until she is _nothing_.

And thus steps into the circle.

–

The clearing is alive with sound. Drums from all sides, prayers for the strength of the racers and from here the mists hide even the smallest leaf of a tree outside of the circle in an opaque shield.

She feels naked all of a sudden. Sober and afraid and uncertain. Her heart hammers in her throat, her pulse echoes in her horns and even if she stands still the perfect rotund of the clearing spins around her at such a dizzying speed that it takes her a moment to notice when she stumbles into her race-brother.

He‘s _younger_ than her, she realizes with a pang of clarity that tears through her turning head with the obviousness of a straight path. And that means she will have to be careful, even when he is not going to be.

“ _Come_ ,” echoes from close to her and she reaches, without thinking, for the shoulder of her race-brother that is not attached to the hand steadying his head as she turns to find the sea-glass-eyes of The Father. Black obsidian beset with turquoise glares back at her, stern but gentle as the hands that reach for them the closer she steers them to Him.

“ _You are too young_ ,” he moans, holding the head of her race-brother between his long, elegant fingers. Seeing in his amber eyes something that Ahsoka cannot. “ _For this race to be fruitful you must yet collect years on your shoulders.”_

“Are we not to race then?” comes the surprisingly petulant voice of her race-brother and she doesn’t know why she does it, but it’s _reflex_ to reach out and flick her finger against his upper-arm in admonishment.

He doesn’t even look at her but she knows he’s received the message.

The Father is quiet but with a pensive stroke of his beard, he gestures for Ahsoka and she steps close - into the hand that reaches for her. Doesn’t cry out as her mind bubbles like a mountain spring when the frost has thawed and her thoughts rise with the same frantic jumble ere it abates again. She doesn’t hear the hum of The Father through the swimming of her head as she brings order to bear once more, but when she feels her feet steadying under her, The Father has already come to a decision.

“ _It was meant for you to run the race for creation. To right what has been wronged by Trickster. But this shan’t be done to you as you are now,”_ The Father hums with a voice that sounds like sliding rocks. Ahsoka feels the truth of his words. Feels the story behind them without being told and feels her conscious become partial to a secret that she hadn’t lived to know yet, back then. Her heart breaks quietly for her mentor and she reaches, unwittingly, for the smaller hand that meets her half-way in commiseration for that which had been done unto the father of her race-brother as well. [She wonders what Trickster had borne instead, but receives no answer to her musings.]

“ _Nevertheless, there is a race to be conducted. And as such… there is a stand-in, you may apply yourself to.”_

Ahsoka knows, before he has finished, what He means. Whom He means and wonders – briefly – if she is even worthy of standing in for such rawness, but like the element itself, a flash of knowledge tears through her; a bright, strong conviction that she would not be here and He would not offer them this if she were not worthy and capable of the task.

Next to her, hand squeezing hers with more mature gentleness than she may have accorded him outside of the rites, her race-brother nods.

“We would be honoured, Father.”

They would be, too, she knows and nods her acquiescence, even as she breathes a new will into her task. _She wants to do well_.

“ _So shall it be.”_ And this time the voice of The Father fills with something rolling and rumbling like war-drums condensed in one breath. The mist coils around them and thickens until it clouds at their feet and when The Father reaches up to clap his hands with a sound that is like a thousand flint-stones catching at the same moment, he vanishes and behind him lies only the path.

“Race you!” The boy calls, already ahead, but his legs are shorter than hers and she easily catches up long before the thaw-slippery grass under her feet gives way to hard, damp rock and she _jumps_ into the nebulous purpose ahead of her with her eyes closed and her mind open.

There should be a downward-momentum, a _fall_ , but all she feels is a lift and then wetness against her skin that dresses her in drops of rain until she wears a robe of tinkling silver that shivers with each of her motions and she is

> \--running ahead, quicker than he is, if she brings Force to bear, she can make the jump, but she’s forgotten that he has the sky at his back and--
> 
> \--he soars after her with heat and fire at his behest, hunts her with blood in his veins and steel in his fingers. The Masters want her and it would quench the thirst of revenge in his heart if he could deliver the last of her but--
> 
> \--she’s a wily sort and when the first shot whistles past her horns, her _kade_ are already out and--

_White_ sizzles in her hands as she flips out of line of a thousand-drum-beat bullet that he aims for her. Running even as the hot energy leaves her hands and she smiles into the bullet that comes after. Her clap of light, followed by the roll of his fury as she saunters ahead of him once more. _Leads_ the chase into another billow of clouds and--

> \--the blood of _millions_ roils in him, and his roar shares the fury of multitudes that were sent out to die for the plan of a single one--

She feels him pulling ahead of her, cloaked by the white-grey-dust-cloud around them and the silver heat in her palm shoots at his shoulder. A warning, that twirls him off path just long enough for her to lengthen her strides again and Obi-Wan’s _rain_ covers her as she embraces the leap into the Unknown, where

> \--she receives a curt nod from the armoured man and jumps into the whiteness, flies with the touch of Force and the light in her hands pierces through necks and she twirls in a deadly dance that he’s never seen before but--

His shot goes wild around her and something _shakes_ under her feet, a groan of something Dark and Ancient. Greedy and _Hungry_ as it opens its Maw to _consume_ with red-eyed fury and wily cunning and she knows that if she doesn’t get away, she will be a tool at the tips of his fingers. But the _whiteness_ in her spreads and fizzles and she hurls her fear upwards – away from _him_ – and the clouds let up just long enough for her to see Mother-Light-Daughter soaring to _life_ in the same breath that she realizes that they’re _tooclosetooclosetooclose_. The roll of fury chases her brightness and her heart lurches with the reminder of her race-brother and--

“Boba!”

She hurls whiteness at her feet, vibrates with the energy that cackles up her calves and thighs. Leaves more white markings on her skin than there had been before. Another bullet, a roar of a billion voices echoing through the clouds around _Ashla_ and _Bogan_ as they clash. 

“Come and _get me!_ ”

His brown locks are matted to his forehead when he falls towards her, eyes dark and mouth grim, but Ahsoka is already jumping away, flicking a spray of drops around her and further along the path with the grace of a hunter and her race-brother follows. Wild and loud, like a horde of warriors storming a keep.

Darkness clips her path and a hurl of _energy_ blinds it long enough to shield Boba’s abrupt entrance and loud _surprise_ at the maw that gapes like an abyss. The shot that follows drowns out their steps as they catch hands and he hurls her ahead of him just as another sizzle of light flees her outstretched arm into the path of _Bogan_ , followed by a roll of drums and the chorus of a billion.

But when he turns back to her, she is already running again, head turned to make sure he follows as they leave the peak behind where _Ashla’s_ cry rings victorious over the mournful yowl of _Bogan_.

The rain doesn’t ease, doesn’t lighten up but the skies _oh_ the _skies_.

 _Fruitful_ , The Father had said and Ahsoka somersaults into the thought, hurls a bolt of brightness into the skies – far away from herself – and Boba’s shot follows her projectile. A second race to their primary one. As giddy as their hearts, now that their running is once more of matter.

It happens within the second of a bullet’s shot – a sight so clear she could swear she was in the moment. Catching a warm, sweating young man, heart-beat quick from exertion and a smile so bright the giddiness was infecting as he pushed and she pulled until they were both laid out on softness that she could not see under her. Lips that met in exultant breaths and tongues that tasted sweat and honey. Laughter that caught in the other’s throat and a sensation of pure ecstasy that started in her belly and spread out into all corners of her body until it consumed her and brightness hit her mind behind her closed lids but she _knew_ that body to be no one else but--

“’soka!”

He stumbles after her, barely catches himself and she can see, even in his youth, where his shoulders will spread and bulk until they are the pillars she had held onto with clawed, desperately happy fingers.

“Catch me!” she giggles at him and the look that she catches in his eyes lets her see the joy he takes from hearing these words as if, he too, had seen what she had seen. He rears up on his haunches to lunge for her, but she is already gone with a laugh and a twist and his shout rumbles through the clouds as he gives chase.

–

She wakes in the dew of the mountain, covered in the white ceremonial garb of a successful racer. Her feet ache and she doesn’t need to look at her legs to know that where natural markings had been before, there were now silver branches like trees stretching the umber skin of her body from her calves up to her thighs. Even her hands still tingle when she fists it into the soft cloth and sits – mournful of her solitude even before she has looked to see that her race-brother is, indeed, missing from her side.

A soft sigh warms the rain-fresh air around her as she exhales and tilts her head up, eyes unseeing but caught in the soft, silvery bright ceiling of clouds that sail quietly overhead, lightened of their burden once more and on the far end towards the mountains she can see rays of the Mother-Light illuminating the wet green around her and under her feet.

“Ahsoka.” A breath of joyous relief and she turns to find Obi-Wan, hair wet and eyes lush as if to blend in with his surroundings and a well of _knowing_ bubbles up in her and springs to her eyes as she opens her arms.

“I’m so sorry for Jango,” she sniffles when he bends to collect her. And she wants to say something else – wants to give him more because, _Stars_ , doesn’t Obi-Wan deserve it. But she can’t find the proper words and, instead, presses her forehead to his tense neck with all the grief and commiseration she can muster before she washes it away and offers understanding.

“Oh… _‘soka_ ,” he breathes quietly when the latter reaches him and his arms tighten further around her figure. Warm her even when she hadn’t noticed that she was cold. _I’m here,_ she hears in the deep well of her mentor as he guides his arm under her knees and gently stands.

“You’ve pleased great many among us,” he offers quietly when he speaks next. “There has not been a spectacle like your race in a while. The Council is very flustered with it.”

A positive thing, she garners by his emotions. It doesn’t always have to be but it is this time. “...I brought a Gift?”

Obi-Wan’s arms tighten around her. Warm and secure and protective. “You brought one that took Both Councils to name it,” he responds quietly and she hums with the pleased thrum that zings through her. Knows that her race-brother, too, feels it.

“It is a good thing?”

“It is _to behold_ , yet never to use,” he smiles. Repeats, she feels, the words of the Councils. “Their Council has named one. _Orar_ – the thunder.”

“The sound of a billion roars compressed in one mouth,” she instinctively knows. “A thousand war-drums that beat their tattoo in the time it takes for an eye to close and open.”

Against her forehead, she feels Obi-Wan’s swallowing. His soft sigh caresses her horns. “Yes.” He is quiet for some time. “Our Council was the one to hear your Gift. It has been named _lightning_.”

For the brightness and the white.

“It is not merely light,” she interjects quietly.

“This is what their Council, too, has felt. They have named the Gift _a’den’tra_ – the rage of the sky.”

 _Yes_ , something within her hums and she echoes the sentiment of agreement; huddling closer into the sheltering embrace of her mentor.

“The Council will have questions for you,” he soothes softly when they reach the underbrush and the soft earth of the forest-floor swallows his light steps.

“They may not like my answer,” she warns and there is another, soft gust of a sigh against her horns, but it is tinged with relief and the shoulder under her cheek softens.

“Then I am sure I’ll be delighted to hear it.”

The snort hurts in her throat but she couldn’t have stopped it if she’d have tried.

–

“Who won the race?”

“The skies won.”

“And what of the decision?”

“There is none to be had now. It will need to wait for a few years yet.”


	3. [T] Pause and Eject

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "War is old men talking and young men dying, don't ever think otherwise, dear." with Korkie and Ahsoka

**\---**

“Why am I not surprised that she fell for the patented Kenobi Charm,” she muses quietly, hums when the youngling sighs into the cradle of the arms that hold her securely against the broad chest of a man she remembers as a teen.

She has missed _years_ , on this plane of reality and in her physical absence things had changed. People had grown up, grown old, grown out of their material shells. _Luminous beings we are,_ her Great-Great-Grand-Master had once said, _Not this crude matter._ [Or maybe hadn’t said it yet. She doesn’t know. Linear time is odd.]

The red-head gives her a look that she knows his family should have patented for all that it is, apparently, handed down genetically, before the bright copper sheen of stubble on his chin scruffs over the downy, soft fur of the youngling as he bends to rumble them into a deeper slumber.

“I am _Kryze_ as well you know,” he soothes – deep and smooth. And if his Basic didn’t roll the way it did, if his accent was just a little less stilted, a bit more crisp, she would think herself in the presence of a much-missed Master.

“By name, indeed.” She agrees, pushing off her leaning-perch in the doorway and weaving peace and stillness and easy rest into the Signature of the youngling he lays to rest in the crib. “Yet only half, by genealogy I should hope.”

Korkie snorts at her lip, but the eyes that catch hers are old, worn and tired. Dark circles frame them and she has _seen_ those eyes before. She knows it. 

"And I do think that I know where the other half comes from." She is soft when she says it, but unrelenting. 

It’s a tender subject that she hasn’t touched with him back when she had first suspected it. Too young to remove people ten years older from the pedestal of awe and see them for the flawed beings they could be – not any less lovable, or deserving of it, but imperfect nonetheless. They must have had their reasons, she knows, even as she catches at the lower arm of her friend; soothing the hapless twitch of his fingers.

“You shouldn’t think that too loudly,” he pleads quietly as they move out of the youngling’s room. “We have enough targets on our backs.”

And not one less for the _ad_ they had adopted too.

It is all the admission she knows she is going to get. But the Force chimes bright and quiet at her. A truth from his lips even as his hand moves to soothe an irritation on his chin in a motion that is achingly familiar.

“It has been a secret for all of our lives,” she agrees. “It shall stay that way for hers too.”

They are peacefully quiet when he guides her from the family roomings and towards the night-lit gardens of the Keldabe Residence. She doesn’t know what he has done to secure this kind of safety for his family as well as the people he manages to ferry through the tunnels and off the planet should they so desire. She is here to pick up ‘cargo’ from a friendly, if worn, face.

“Would you tell me of the outside?” he asks quietly as they pass through a bow of artfully grown roses, draped in a gratuitous bow over the small, sandy path. She can almost not see the moon from here and doesn’t mind when he stops in the clandestine cave.

“It’s war, Korkie, you know how it is,” she shrugs. “Old men talking, you men dying, hit repeat.”

For all that the Empire promised peace, the price of it rang too high even years after its rise. She knows that she, herself, is not without guilt in this matter but she cannot, in good conscience, think of her men and not offer others the opportunity to fight against their oppression. [She should have started a rebellion way earlier than she had had allowed herself to be drawn into one.]

“Then maybe, this time, we hit Pause and Eject instead,” he murmurs quietly as he drops something into her hand. Heavy, bulky and unexpected. She fumbles for a second, reaches with the Force when it threatens to topple off her fingers and something about her instinct _catches_ in the thing and she realizes only too late – when it glows, cool and bright and _blue_ – that she is holding an _Artefact_ and--

“Korkie?” His eyes are kind and wizened in a way they shouldn’t be, full of despair and hope and something throat-tightening but the Artefact has _latched on_ and whatever is happening, she will have to go along for the ride.

“Say hello to my father from me, will you, my friend?”


	4. [M] All that is gold does not glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...LotR AU with Blyla

\---

“You are not the strider.”

The accent on the tongue is heavy, warm vowels and rolling tongue but Bly stops immediately as he hears it, drawn sword still in his hand.

“No, my Lady.”

A hum. A rustle of leaves he cannot locate in the eternal darkness around him. Whoever thought it was a good idea to curse a Forest into Darkness has likely never walked their talk.

“You are not a mere soldier either, are you?”

The voice is closer this time. Just over his shoulder but when he turns, there is no one there. Not even the diminishing warmth of a person who is quicker than him. Bly swallows.

“And you are not a mere lady, are you?”

His bravado earns him a laugh and he takes the additional time to strain his eyes just a bit more. The blood pounds in his ears and he wonders just how big the trouble is he has borrowed when he had stepped forward to ask for this duty. He’s a foot-soldier. There are billions of him with the same face, called from the earth and made in man’s likeness to fight for them.

 _There_.

Eyes in the darkness. Reflective like those of a deer, eerie and flat silver that stares back at him. She doesn’t blink.

“You have come for my favour, soldier, have you not?”

He tastes copper in his mouth. Swallows against the taste and steels himself as he looks into those reflective deer-eyes.

“And if I have?” he parries.

The eyes vanish. Underbrush rustles and Bly twirls, but there is _nothing_ there but a breath of wind.

“It comes at a price.”

 _Anything_ , he wants to say. But that answer has been known to get man into trouble. And they already _are_ at war. He cannot be the one to undo the work of his Generals.

“I would have you tell me.”

Light spears the darkness with such force and ferocity that it blinds him. Instinct makes him lift his sword hand, makes him defend against the source of such power. But nothing happens to him and when he looks again, the earth under his boots is still just as mucky as he had assumed when he had first stepped beyond the hedge of the Forest and let himself be swallowed by its vines.

With the dread of one who is about to stare into the sun with never-closing eyes, he lifts his head to see.

“I should like you to devote yourself to me,” she is almost right in front of him. Just two steps out of reach, floating, as if perched on an invisible branch. She is _beautiful_ in the strange way that only those who are _other_ in their world can be, barely covered in foreign cloth and displaying so much _skin_ that-- The bright gleaming blue of her blade catches his eyes, bared and beautiful and he suddenly realizes _why_ the men who have gone have never returned from the Forest.

Carefully, he lowers his sword. Waffles, for a breath or two, before he firmly sets his eyes down on the earth. Just as he would in the presence of any High Born Lady. It feels easier to study the succulent leaves of the vines underneath her than to consider the outlandish shade of her skin.

“How do I do that?” he returns. “I have a war to fight.”

“Pray,” she says and this time it is the sweet melody of an entreaty. “Call unto me daily, let me hear your pleas and troubles. Be it morrow or eve.”

He doesn’t hear her move but in the next moment, there is a hand on his bare skin – fingers encasing his ear and he is tall enough that she has to _stretch_ but she reaches easily and before he has realized what she is doing, there is a warm weight of lips against his and a foreign taste against his tongue. He shifts to bend, to ease the strain he is certain she suffers, to listen to the hymn of his blood that wishes to answer her call. Yet barely has he replied to her heady advance, does darkness envelop him once more.

–

“You came back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find what we sent you out for?”

“...No… sir. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my man. It was good of you to go. And it is better to have you return. We will need you.”

–

He comes back empty-handed and unmarked by the Lady of the Woods, but he remembers every last detail of their encounter – down to the most toe-tingling embrace he has been part of in the entirety of his short life.

It is no hardship, then, to sit down in the evening, and call forth the image of the Lady. Blue skin and long horns, swaying as if supple, behind her, and the tight dress of her Hunter’s Garb covering just the bare minimum of her skin. Bly swallows and shies away from any further inspection of her.

 _I don’t know if this is the way it’s done, my Lady,_ he thinks – feels almost foolish, before he realizes that no one can hear his thoughts and that the inside of his head is likely the only place he is free. _But… Good evening, my Lady. I pray thanks to you, for my safe return and for the health of my brothers._

–

Bly is the Commander of his battalion. This means that at the stroke of a hand, he has garnered roughly a hundred children under his care who bear the same face as he does and whom he calls his brothers for lack of proper classification.

The Generals do not mind them their closeness. [Most of them.] And seem rather content, in some cases, to encourage such bonds amongst the men. It boosts morale, he has heard one of them say. And it makes them more efficient on the battle-fields when they have something to protect.

Bly thinks they are already well-enough efficient – and he is wont to tell His Lady so often, he feels – but he is not of the same stock as the Generals and they might see details that he may yet overlook. And yet there are many instances in which Bly thinks that the Generals do not see nearly enough.

As now, when he holds their youngest in his arms, breathing through the remnants of an all too familiar night-terror as a soldier would through the loss of a limb.

Bly knows the dream. He does not need to be told of the scenes that the brain conjures when the body is a heavy weight and the mind is wont to run amuck. He has been the shivering body in the arms of a brother, just barely swallowing down the bile that Darkness has called up from his stomach and into his throat until he thought he would die either from lack of breath or his mind as it rendered itself apart.

He is, still, not cured from these accursed images and he wishes he could tell his brothers that time eases the strain. But he cannot be a liar unto his own kin.

Rough fingers card through the short hair of his brother as he soothes the feverish skin that he knows will be gone by the morrow – these flashes of fear strike each of them at any time they choose to. And the shame of it has never brought a brother to the asking for aid of their Generals. No matter the whispers of the prowess of the men and women that lead them. If they knew…

He exhales. Carefully and deeply. Makes himself focus on the clammy weight in his lap, the thrum of empathy that threads the air of the tent. Every brother knows what is happening. And each turns away with a prayer of strength for their youngest, giving privacy in a place where none is to be had, while offering whatever support they could. Bly knows these silences. He has sat in them often enough.

 _Please_ , he thinks quietly as he holds his brother through his terror, _My Lady, please let him sleep – without dreams. I wish they all could have their rest undisturbed and fortifying. As they deserve it._

His brother calms in his arms. Breath slowing and skin gently drying in the warm air that is alleviated by a gentle breeze. It smells, he notices absently, strongly of forest. A sigh, a pat on the hand – the quietest thanks even as tears continue to dry on his brother’s cheeks and Bly resolves to stretch out next to him. Beds his head on his strong arm and stares up at the ceiling of dancing canvas.

 _You too, my Commander._ A caress on his cheek, a draft warm enough to close his eyes into. _You too must rest._

–

He finds her flowers the next morning. Just enough blooms to bind a small ring of it that he places on a nearby boulder, out of reach for any passing soldier to accidentally displace or take with him.

 _Good morning, my Lady_ , he thinks at her just as he places the crown down. _Thank you for the peaceful night_.

His brothers are better rested than they have been in months and Bly doesn’t know if this is how prayers work – if this is how devotion works – but he thinks he could do this for a lot longer if it did.

 _We march a long way today, My Lady,_ he continues as he rocks back on his heels, _and we have need of the strength you’ve given us this night. So thank you_.

When he turns around, his General is looking at him with something akin to scrutiny, but he says nothing when Bly mounts his horse and takes his place beside him. And so, nothing is said of the matter.

–

_**No**_ , he growls at the whispers in his head. The foul language he cannot understand but feels like poison in his veins – spreading from the depths of his mind as the armies flee. A hiss, a word, and his whole body lurches, draws his sword even as he gags on his terror.

A scream tears him out of his stupor, makes him turn his head.

Kote’s helmet is off. His mouth is parted in sheer fright and the scream from his throat is inhumane as he tries to fall on his own weapon rather than bury it in the back of his General.

A laugh from the abyss of his mind and a sudden clarity, because they’d been _made_ , but no one could ever tell them what of and who from and--

 _No!_ , he clings, desperately, fearfully, to the image of blue skin and reflecting eyes. _Stop us!_ It’s a cry nearly drowned out by the putrid tendrils of dark magic reaching for his soul. _I beg you! STOP US!_

[This comes at a price. _Anything_.]

–

“Have I told you the story of the Lady of the Woods yet?”

Red locks fly from one side to the other, head shaking an empathic No. He smiles softly, reaching for the ginger form of his child.

“It is a frightening story,” he warns. Thinks of the darkness and the terror of his men. Thinks of the swords they had drawn and almost sunken into the backs of their Generals. Thinks of the tears and the anguished cries.

“Not scared,” she swears, petulantly. “What’sa story of the Lady?”

He hums. Turning towards the next-best window and points towards the Dark Expanse of the Forest beyond.

“Where we guard the borders of humanity outside of these woods, The Lady of the Forest and her brave, brave men, guard us fearlessly and freely from the shadows that lurk deep within its belly.”

“Who is she?”

“Nobody knows,” he answers. “But the Men she has taken were once of Gondor. Brave warriors. And a band of brothers unlike any you have seen before.”

“What’sa story _ada_?”

“Listen close then, dearheart. Once upon a time...”


	5. [E] Is that my shirt?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is that my shirt" and very _loving_ clone pile
> 
>  **This is like _very_ explicit. ** I haven't written anything like that... ever, I think...

\---

Being one of the very few establishments within acceptable distance on the planet holding their headquarters, 79s is never really empty. A billion of possible customers and enough booze to flood Serenno makes it always a good place to lay down your worries at least for a few hours. Or try drinking them under the table.

That said, there is, he has noticed, a curious lack of… regulars, even as he steers towards the corner where a flash of Orange defies the strobe on the dance-floor and acts like a beacon to the most coveted table within the entire bar.

A few of them are already crammed around the sturdy rotund, almost hidden if it were not for the blue neon glare of a coloured light, intentionally lopsided to illuminate the very back corner.

Cody greets him with a shot-glass and a clink in salute before he downs his own. Wolffe doesn’t hesitate – welcomes the burn of whatever low-shelf produce they’ve been handed this time.

“Where’s the rest?” he asks. Doesn’t have to yell; barely. His brother shrugs.

“Rex said something about comming in a few. Seems there was a hold-up.”

Not unusual per se. Larger groups of clones – even in civilian clothing – tended to draw attention from authorities that liked to lord some sort of fictional superiority over them. Normally, however, Rex is clever enough to avoid them and it strikes something in Wolffe that he wouldn’t have been this time around.

“Trouble?”

Cody shakes his head. “Not according to the Codes.”

The Codes. A secret hidden even in perfectly-regulation reports. A language that’s been an old story back when their Primary Template had learned it and that they had seized and modded until it had been _theirs_ and they could hide it as rhythmical repetition even in oral reports. _Vod’e_ know what to look for and Cody especially.

Therefore, when his PADD pings ten minutes, later, he doesn’t hesitate to accept the incoming message. A visual comm. Distracting in its nature but nonetheless sent from Rex’ distributor and thus trustworthy.

Until he actually opens it.

“Oh.”

Cody has shuffled into the crook of his neck, curious and unapologetic with a straw in his mouth and a sweet, alcoholic _something_ in a rapidly emptying glass.

Oh, indeed, Wolffe thinks as he puts the PADD down flat in the middle of the table to engage the automatic holo-projector, skin warming the longer he looks. “Is that my shirt?”

Kix sighs, crosses his arms. “And my vambrace.”

Cody, next to them shifts – looks. “Hmm… been wondering where that’d went...”

Echo snorts. Artfully doesn’t choke on his drink in any fashion while expressing his amusement _and_ sipping on his drink as well as the picture presented.

“It _has_ been a while,” Boil rumbles – looks closer, looks with intent, but doesn’t say more than that.

“They in the barracks?”

Wolffe has been trying to analyse the background but the PADD’s holoprojector doesn’t pick up the details and trying to look at the screen right now gives his cybernetic eye more trouble than is worth. Even for the _shabuir_ in black trousers and an old shirt that Wolffe knows from experience is soft as sin and so threadbare it’s just this side of a decent garment to wear outside of duty. He looks _delectable_.

Echo slurps his drink, eyes narrowed. “If they’re in the barracks then it’s not the 501st,” he declares finally. “We don’t have that kind of… _art_ on our walls.”

He’s right too. Although Wolffe is not going to divulge how he would know this.

“Neither 212th,” Cody muses and Wolffe is not going to tell about this either. But it’s right. Which means…

“ _Assholes_ ,” he grunts, zooms in on the poster that he _knows_. And given the participants… “D’you know how deep the cleaning has to be to hide this from a farkling telepath?”

He’s going to kill Boost. And Sinker. After he’s made them explain it to Plo.

Fuck. That’s exactly why they are participating. They know they’re safe. _Shabuir’e_.

Cody snorts. Shrugs when Wolffe glares. “We didn’t even have time to wake up after the last pile when Kenobi’s psychometry un-friend came along. Gave us all one hell of a stare down and I am _never_ going to be able to look at the asshole again without seeing his waggly brows.”

Wolffe knows he should be concerned about something else but-- “Un-friend?”

“Ask Kenobi,” Cody shoots back and moves to take a sip, before a thought crosses his mind. “No wait. Don’t.”

Boil snorts into the remaining dregs in his glass, but Wolffe can see that Cody’s the last to nurse his drink. “So we’re going right?” Cody's trooper asks, catches the look of his Commander with a face that’s completely blank and non-expectant and Wolffe wishes that _his_ squad could pull off battle-hardened innocence like this.

Cody slurps the rest of his drink noisily through his straw and sits back. “Yeah we are.”

Wolffe doesn’t need the looks he gets to know that it’s up to him to lead the way. He’s halfway out of the booth by the time Cody has finished his sentence.

–

It’s easy to find the bunk-room Rex had commandeered – likely at the counsel of Boost and Sinker, because the Captain wouldn’t know. Technically. Officially. Longshot and Warthog are both sitting at the side of the door with a game of Sabacc between them. Looking, for all intents and purposes like a pair of troopers who have done nothing wrong except finding a mostly inappropriate place for playing, nothing else. Any SO moving past would give them a reprimand to take their gambling elsewhere. But that’s the GAR’s problem. Any _vod_ would know that there’s a _pile_ beyond those doors.

“Longshot,” Cody greets amicable. “How’s the leg doing?”

Right. Good choice in guards too, he realizes. Warthog’s nearly been space-dust on their last deployment and is still nursing _bubbles_ in his lungs. And if Longshot himself has been injured then there’s maybe even more reason for the GAR to look the other way. Nat-borns around the barracks tend to give clones leeway; likely out of a surplus of exposure. But this is especially true for those injured.

Nice touch.

“Coming along nicely, sir,” the brown-haired _vod_ greets back. Swerves a hand towards the game and then just a touch farther out, towards the door. A hidden gesture – nothing to see here for anyone who’s not a _vod_. “Care for a game?”

“No,” Cody smiles, “But thanks for the invite. Feel like turning in early t’night.”

It’s always something special for troopers, Wolffe thinks, when they realize that even their Commanders are _vode_ with needs and desires like the rest of them. Longshot beams and knocks the door low on a corner.

“Don’t let me stop you then, sir. Have a good one.”

He’s _precious_ , Wolffe realizes with a lurch of some terrible realization. Especially when Boil moves past him just close enough to accidentally ruffle his hair. Longshot doesn’t even say anything – moves his head just _so_ , and – equally on accident, Wolffe is certain – prolongs the touch.

Wolffe gets swallowed by the warm penumbra of the barracks.

–

It’s not a full turn-out, because they don’t really have the space for that, but their bunks are crammed nevertheless and the air is heavy with the scent of sweat and something heady that is a tell all of its own. Bodies writhe in pairs and groups and Wolffe may not like the thought of clean-up in the morning but quickly delegates the trouble to Future-Wolffe.

Now he moves slowly through the throng of sweating _vod’e_ , quirks his brow unrepentantly at Boost even as shielded as he is with Comet in his lap. He sweeps the deck for the last of the Wolfpack who usually joins them in their shenanigans but finds him tucked up loosely with Rex’ SiC whose bright amber eyes glint almost dangerously in the red-magenta-violet of the artificial light at the back of the bunks, where a small space is being abused as a place of… precursor. He’d call it dancing if any of it were actually being done instead of the grating, grinding, sweat- and fluid-exchanging.

 _Stars_ , he loves this.

“It really _has_ been some time,” Cody mutters next to him and Wolffe follows his eyes to find--

Rex. Moving in the throng of people with a sinuous grace that takes his breath away. Blond hair look almost white in the rotating light and _fuck_ but if those arms, all high up in the air, don’t look as if made from the finest stone. His skin glistens with sweat and Wolffe growls when he sees the leather choker around the throat of the Captain.

“That yours?” he grounds at Cody and their Marshal Commander takes a moment to answer.

“I take it the shirt is yours then.”

It’s quite the opposite, really, but Rex is a conniving bastard who knows precisely how to get where he wants to go. And if he wants both of his partners at the same time, then he will steal into Cody’s bunk to get Wolffe’s collar and steal into Wolffe’s office to steal Cody’s shirt it seems.

The 501st medic has joined the SiC and looks positively delighted at being pulled between the Cog-Head and Sinker. Wolffe has heard _rumours_ about those two but-- Seems like he has his own rumour to air.

“We knew it was only a matter of time ‘til he made us admit it.”

“He’s an asshole like that,” Cody agrees. “You’re up for owning it?”

Wolffe snorts. “I was born for nothing else,” he shoots back and moves.

–

Wolffe is careful but no less intent when he closes his teeth around the breadth of the leather collar around the neck in front of him, pulls with a heady growl just as Cody steps in and moves his thigh in a strategic position that does _nothing_ to lessen the throaty cry of their _vod_ between them when they make contact at the exact same time.

Rex sags, grateful and surrendering, into their silhouettes. Closes his eyes with a weak trill when Wolffe’s mouth moves from his neck to his shoulder, pulling the old shirt just far enough to sink his teeth into the strong flesh of a shoulder. Cody swallows the sound their blond makes. Ignores the desperate rut of his hips against his thigh and plunders the taste of sweetness right out of Rex’ mouth.

“Be good now,” Wolffe snarls and Cody hadn’t noticed that his own hands had wandered to still Rex’ hands behind the small of his back, but Wolffe’s meet him on their Captain’s hips, stern and tight and when Cody leaves off the mouth of their _vod,_ Rex’ answer is a sweet sigh and dropping shoulders.

“So beautiful like this,” Cody whispers. Praises as free fingers sweep the length of the blond’s upper body, a soothing caress with weight to his palm rather than a tease. That will come later. “Good to us when you let us take care of you.”

Rex hums but remains non-verbal. Wolffe sighs, sweeps his thumbs in wide arcs around the hip-bones of the blond. “Not a talker tonight, are you, Rex’ika?”

Cody sees the slow blink of their _vod_ , but it’s only when he feels the tapping against the thigh of the other Commander, even with his hands held in Cody’s tight grip, that he brushes a kiss over their man’s cheek.

“That’s okay, Pretty Boy. ‘s long as you remember your fingers,” he soothes and another twitch of the digits thanks them just as Rex closes his eyes again and sags further into Wolffe’s steadying grip. _Need_ _ed_ _._ He twitches at them and Cody wonders how long their Captain has held out before he’d looked for others to arrange this pile with.

A sharp sigh – almost a groan, but only almost – lifts from Wolffe’s lips and for a second Cody can feel him squeeze too tightly between them; almost punishingly. Rex takes it, wordless and surrendering with an arc of his neck and slick, parted lips that Cody wants to push his fingers between.

“We’ll have a talk about your bottling-it-up-complex,” the Commander promises darkly and Rex twitches a meek _Yes_ at them before Wolffe eases his hold and sighs an apologetic kiss into the extended nape of their Captain. “But later. Now we’ll make it good for you, alright, pretty boy? Just you listen and let us do the rest, okay?”

 _Yes_ , he taps. _Thanks._

–

“Are you really alright with this?” Echo asks again, gentle even as he burns for a Yes, burns to sink himself into the slickness presented to him, the heat he knows will be coming and the tightness he knows will be augmented by the dick that already _is_ in Tup and _fuck_ who knew that their _vod’ika_ would be such a gift to them.

Hardcase hiccups a laugh into the growl of their long-haired _vod_ when Fives times it just right and _pushes_ when Tup rolls their hips into their heavy gunner. Tup’s teeth leave ‘case’s lips reddened, sighing and open with an appreciative moan when Fives rolls his hips in a motion Echo knows all too well.

“Echo,” Tup groans, reaches for him with silver-shiny finger-nails that scratch a distracting path through his short buzz. “ _Please_.”

“Fuck, _vod’ika_ ,” he sighs, follows the pull of the hand and nuzzles his nose into their shoulder until he can latch onto their shoulder and breaches with soft gentleness that is absolutely ruined when Fives pushes from one side just as Tup moves and takes him greedily into their hotness.

‘case doesn’t _shout_ , so much as his breath pairs with noise and he buries nose in Tup’s opposite shoulder, _keens_ when Fives follows his initial motion with another of _those_ hip-rolls and Echo grabs at Tup’s hip, doesn’t know if he wants to still them for his own sake or for theirs, but it’s all null and void either way, because the four of them are already a tangled, sweaty mess and his joining has not bettered that in the least.

“ _Tup_ ,” ‘case’s voice is a thin, reedy thing. “Fives, _fuck_.” Echo catches the almost-fist of their _vod_ , pulls his fingers between his and gives him something to _clutch_ as the first wash of orgasm reaches one of them. He can’t even see their _vod_ , but the grip is something terrible and beautiful to behold. Tup stills, breathes, gently, deeply, and Echo waits for the moment where Hardcase slips out – makes room – but it doesn’t happen and it’s only when ‘case’s haggard cry echoes in a twitch of his fingers against his that he realizes that Fives is still _pushing him_.

Glorious bastard.

He cranes his neck just enough, watches his _ori’vod_ as he pushes his lips into the sweaty neck of their _vod_ , whispers into the flushed ears of their heavy and holds his hips with a grip that is either hard as hell or just tight enough.

“You’re gonna move?” Tup asks, rolls their head back into their neck to catch his eyes and _twitches_ around him and, as if in reflex, Echo rolls his hips. “Or you’re just gonna stay for the show?”

“Don’t get cocky, _vod’ika_ ,” he reprimands, squeezes his fingers, and 'case's, around their hips tighter for only a moment. “You’re really in no position.”

Tup’s lips spread in a lackadasical – decadent – smile, teethy and breathless, basking in the enjoyment as Echo push-pulls until--

“ _Ah!_ ”

“There we go,” he whispers, squeezes Hardcase’s fingers in a short good-bye as he disentangles their digits and goes for the combination he is quite certain will make his _vod’ika_ eat their words. “That’s a good _vod_.”

“Ech— _oh!_ ” Tup hisses when he finds the sensitive tip of that which should have made them equal in their biological sex but just barely does not. Tup is likely not the only _vod_ with this discrepancy, but Echo can imagine that they’re one of the very small (vanishingly small) percentage that has survived despite it. Likes to think that they’re the one who is best taken care of too.

“That’s it, _vod’ika_ ,” he encourages, rubs a slow circle that contrasts the sharp jolt of his hips against the second spot within Tup that draws a high whine from them. A short ripple is all the warning Echo gets and then--

“ _Fierfek_ ,” Hardcase’s hips jerk in an abandoned movement that Fives, as if divining it, keeps in check almost before it has truly happened as Tup wails a high-pitched song and squeezes against Echo.

“ _Jate, vod’ika. Jate_ , that’s one,” Echo hums into the pulse of slick that floods from Tup. Noses past their longer hair, now matted to their forehead, their neck, and into the dip of their neck just behind their ear. “Feel good, you menace?” He’s soft when he asks, restricts his own motions to nothing more than instinctive pulses and makes to move his fingers away from the front of his _vod_ , when their own hand catches it, holds it.

“Leave it there,” they breathe. “Wan’ you to leave it there.”

He hums a kiss into their neck. “Can do, _vod’ika_.”

Fives pushes. Tup hiccups.

Impatient bastard.

–

“’e’s pretty like that, isn’t he?” Jesse murmurs hotly into his ear, caresses Kix’ jaw that works just _barely_ around his girth and Sinker doesn’t think he’s ever had a _vod_ take him so deeply. _Fierfek._

“Yeah,” he rasps, barely pushes into the tightness of the throat, into the hold Jesse has on his hips – the hold he trusts to keep him back. A reproving nip to his shoulder and a tighter grip are all the warning he needs.

“None of that, _vod,_ ” Jesse admonishes. Soothes the sting of his teeth with hot lips and light suction. “Remember: we do, you just look pretty.”

Sinker swallows, but nods and, finally, closes his eyes, leans his head back and accepts the breach of his _vod_ into him.

The rumours about the two of them have been _absolutely_ warranted and he will, starting tomorrow, endorse every _vod_ to count their lucky stars if they are chosen by this pair.

–

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Comet. ‘m good.” He’s been good for the past ten fucken minutes that his _vod_ has taken to open him up – proper like.

“I’m gonna start moving now, yeah?”

As if it was his first time taking a _vod_ and he can’t believe that he’s helped educate this bastard into someone so--

“Yeah, just...”

“Careful, I know.”

\-- _considerate_.

Boost growls, snaps his hips down sooner than – maybe – he should have. Comet’s not on the small side but-- “ _No_ for fuck’s sake I want to _feel_ you.”

His _vod_ snorts, soothes the slight sting that stills Boost on top of him. “Greedy bastard,” he reproves but the small circles of his hips say different.

–

“Waxer.”

He knows what this is. _Haar’chak_ but this man is good to him – doesn’t know what he did to deserve him but whatever it is, he’s gonna do it again the next few life-times just so he can repay him again and again and again.

“Boil,” Waxer is only partially paying attention to him, which he can forgive.

“...This is new.” _This_ being the trooper in his _vod’s_ arm, languid and peaceful and probably _ready_ judged by the glassy look in his eyes.

“D’you like it?”

Loaded question that one. “...And if I did?”

Boil knows and will repeat until his dying day – if only to himself – that he is lucky to have this man in his life and at his side. Because all that Waxer does is smile kindly and give the _vod_ in his arms a gentle squeeze that ripples over the dewy skin of his neck in goosebumps. “If y’ask nicely, I’m sure you could have it.”

He ducks under the upper bunk and out of the way of a wayward hand when he kneels down on the mattress and shuffles up next to Waxer, hand rising to card through the Mohawk of the blanketed _vod._ “Hello, Wooley.”

“lo, Boil.” Not entirely out of it but--

“You wanna tell me why you’re naked in the lap of my _riduur_?”

“’s a present.”

\--close to it. His lips are swollen and his eyes are beautifully unfocussed, shiny, and he can see the purpling marks on his throat that should, really, not do to him what they do. But Waxer knows what he likes and… He sighs appreciatively, lowers his hand to press his fingers gingerly into one of them.

“…A present,” he echoes, offers more of his palm when Wooley sighs into the contact and shuffles to seek more of it. _Fek_ , that readiness--

“fo’ you…,” the trooper warbles with a soft smile that turns shy, “An’ me pro’ly.”

Oh Waxer. His _riduur_ smiles when he catches his eyes and the transfer of the languid _vod_ from one pair of arms to his own goes as smooth as if they’d practised it for years. Wooley’s weight is solid on his thighs and Boil takes a moment to appreciate his form by running rough palms over his body. He’s slick between the thighs.

“He been givin’ you a hard time?”

Wooley’s breath stutters when Boil’s finger-tips catch on the hemispherical end of the placeholder between his cheeks and push _gently_ eliciting a high whine that goes straight to his cock. No surprises there. Waxer knows _exactly_ what he likes. _Fierfek_.

“’e’s very… th’rough,” Wooley pants, hands reaching for his shoulder, clutching as if unsure, before Boil cradles his cheek and brings him in for a kiss. He can’t believe he hasn’t kissed this wonderful creature yet. Waxer pushes against his shoulder, getting comfortable for a show, if Boil knows him at all.

“That he is,” Boil agrees lowly when they part. Pushes at the placeholder again and catches the sound with a soft nip to Wooley’s jugular. “Would it be okay if I finished the job?”

“’ _lek,_ ” Wooley clutches freely now, bunches his shirt between desperate fingers and looks less unsure. They’ll get that out of him too. _“_ _Gedet’ye_.”

Really, how can he say no to such a nice request.


	6. [T] The Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slappy-hand-fight with Ahsoka and Feemor

\---

She hisses from the slap at her hands and reflexively pulls them back, but not without closing her fingers over one treat and pulling it with her.

“They’re not ready yet,” comes the hissed chiding, but she has already bitten into the dough, warm and still a little soft and just the perfect side of gooey.

When he tries to get the treat out of her hand she chews faster. “You’ll get a stomach-ache.”

Another attempt at swiping her treat. Swallow. Stuff the rest in. She doesn’t even step out of his range. If Wolffe has taught her anything then it was that in times like these there was only one thing to do. _Chew. Faster_.

She swallows. “Worth it.”

A sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Appreciate my presence of course,” she teases as she hops on the silver preparation table behind her. He doesn’t even need to look properly to spray her with wet fingertips.

“You’re cleaning that table,” he admonishes. “No sitting on food-prep stations. I thought you’d learn at least that.”

“For all that I’m good at getting in trouble I have never had to serve penalty by making others food,” she says quietly.

The Masters know that she enjoys work. Physical work more than mental work, but she has learned, too, to find the challenge and enjoyment in that. It would not do for a lazy head to be Rex’ commander, she’d found, and had taken the Captain’s strategic challenges head-on much to his enjoyment.

She misses her men.

“How long are you staying?” he asks quietly, straightening from his position over the table in front of her where he’d been rolling out the dough and moulding what she knows will be sweet treats to kill for. Master _Windu_ had even said so once and it’s a shame, really, that Ahsoka hasn’t heard of it any earlier.

She shrugs when he turns to look at her. “I don’t know. With Master Skywalker it could be anything from three weeks to three months – depending on where his current mission ends up taking him.”

There’s purpose in her blitheness but she registers the soft twinge of emotion in him either way. It can be a difficult thing to ignore but this time Ahsoka doesn’t even really have to try. She wants to think of _anything_ else than Anakin.

“You think you’re going to get sick of me?” she asks under her breath. Not quite an admission but as far as one as he is going to get from her. He knows it too.

A broad – _sticky_ – hand settles into the dip of her montrals and she squeaks in outrage, before the appendage settles over her face and pushes gently in reprimand. She licks a broad stripe over his palm in retribution and makes a sound equally as disgusted as he does when they separate. Blue meets blue and there is humour in those deep-set eyes that she has come to love and cherish.

“You’re a real _di’kut_ ,” she moans with a face when she tries to assess the damage to her horns and figures out very quickly that she is only going to make it worse.

A snort, a gentle swat at her fingers. “Well now that you’re already sticky, you can help,” he coaxes and just for good measure, taps a few more sticky spots on her montrals, her lekku, her _nose_.

“The _audacity_ ,” she hisses, pulling back from his latest assault towards her olfactory instrument. Ahsoka puts on her best glower, breathless with increasing intensity, when it makes his lips spread in a warm smile that seems terribly at home on his face. [It’s a chore, sometimes, to put it there. But it’s one she will take up willingly and whenever she can.]

Mischief lights up in his eyes when he leans closer, hands rising from where he’d dropped them.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she bristles. Swats at the first hand that comes closer, blocks the attempted retaliation, dares an attack of her own and gets a swat to the back of her own hand for it. Fair skin reddens when she ambushes his assaulting ligament with her off-hand, catches his slap with her own palm and the resounding clap is a bit louder in the empty kitchen than maybe intended.

This doesn’t stop him. “Tiny menace,” he grins at her; swats again. Ahsoka is prepared, slips under his hand, taps his wrist, cashes in a soft slap to her exposed lower arm.

“Ahem.”

They do _not_ spring apart. Such a thing is _unbecoming_ of renowned Knights as himself and Ahsoka has better control over her own body than that. This, however, does not help them a lot and they freeze for a brief moment – caught with their hands raised and engaged in a quiet tussle of sticky hands by none other than Madam Jocasta Nu.

“I am not interrupting anything, am I?” she smiles benignly and Ahsoka has the pleasing misfortune of actually _liking_ the old coot.

“No, Madam Nu,” she answers gently, dropping her hands to see if she could help her elder.

He strikes with expert precision.

“Fee!”

Warm laughter fills the small kitchen room at his successful attack even as she makes an aborted attempt at getting back at him. He dances out of her stab-and-lunge with an ease that belies his training and talent. She will meet him in the salles yet sooner or later. She can’t wait to learn from him.

The surreptitious rustle of cloth is the only sound that belies Madame Nu’s movement but when Ahsoka looks, she realizes that the woman has not moved from her position.

There is, however, a small rotund missing from where her opponent had put it on the baking sheet. He sighs.

“Give it twenty minutes, Madame Nu, they’ll be fresh and ready to eat then.”

And Ahsoka can’t quite believe that there is someone around here who _dares_ admonish _the_ librarian of the Order, no matter how gently he does it. What is even more surprising is that he is getting away with it.

“Twenty minutes you say?”, the aged Jedi muses. “Well then it would be perfect time to prepare three proper cups of _Senzha_ , wouldn’t it?”

Ahsoka doesn’t know how Madame Nu knows. Because there is a lot that she does not know about her friend. A lot, she knows, that maybe she should know. But grown-ups can be weird sometimes and Ahsoka has learned that not-pushing gets her more results than _goal-oriented inquiries_ to certain matters. In the quiet of her mind, she stows away the fact that Madame Nu is probably the only one who has, too, picked up on the _slight_ fixation Fee has on _tea_. Not, she has to admit, unlike Obi-Wan. [She wonders if there are parallels. But the Force chimes and she wonders instead if she should try to see the parallels clearer. The Force is quiet at that.]

“Of course, Master Nu,” Feemor replies with a twinkle in his eyes just as he bends to roll the tray into the heater. “I don’t believe Ahsoka has the right technique yet. We really should get to that.”

She feels no remorse for the gentle swat of her hand, later, when his finger-tips hold on to a still hot cookie so gingerly that it falls out of his hold and into his lap with almost no effort.

“Antagonist,” he smiles at her.

“Tea Traitor,” she grumbles into her bitter cup. [She _doesn’t_ have the right technique. Feemor assures her it will come with practice.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote the pairings for this, my mind sort of went off on a tangent about Feemor and rather abruptly screeched to a halt and was suddenly like '???? Ahsoka ???? and Feemor ???' and them promptly devolved into '!!! Ahsoka and Feemor !!!' so... have some I do think there's not enough Feemor to go around on AO3 and he deserves nice things
> 
> Also: HC that Wolffe reacts to people telling him to spit it out by simply _chewing faster_ and having successfully imparted that knowledge to Ahsoka...


	7. [T] Kurs'agol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A deer, but it's big" with Jango & Boba

\---

An expectant hush falls over the assembled crowd as _Mand’alor_ steps forward. Their arms are laden with precious cargo but even with their careful steps, the ceremonial paint on their arms smears off and onto the one they’re carrying. Clouds of burnt umber bruise into existence, fingerprints vanish in accidental sweeps and when the cargo is set down at the very end of the row, the paint of the _Mand’alor_ has mingled with its own decoration. A miasma of ochre-gold and umber-red.

 _Mand’alor_ lifts the chalice of burning herbs and sweeps hands cupped into the shape of a bird through the haze, directing the billows towards themselves. For a brief moment their mask vanishes in the dense smoke and when they emerge from it, their bird-shaped hands fly over the seated cargo.

The tense silence of the congregation is cut abruptly with a shrill wail at the motion of the _Mand’alor_. The clear voice of their Singer rises through the hazy morning, calling for _Kurs’agol_ in a beautiful plea that makes several hearts stop and other eyes water.

 _Mand’alor_ themselves seem frozen in time and space as they sink lower into the Other. A rattle rises to the Winds, calls each direction, calls the above and the below and finally sweeps over the assembled crowd before it whistles harshly down over the cargo. Even with lack of impact, the small shells on the dried gourd clatter demandingly before even they fall silent. Right on the last drum-beat.

A wisp of morning fog floats between _Mand’alor_ and the rough, stone-hewn shrine before them.

It lifts again to reveal _Kurs’agol_ in all their glory.

Unanimously, the congregation exhales a long sigh and tension flies from the air. Makes way for the giddy flutter of joyful expectation.

 _Kurs’agol_ snort gently – as if in greeting – and shake the encompassing breadth of their antlers, sprinkling the congregation with flowers, vines and even bark before they lower their muzzle to _Mand’alor_ ; sitting still at their hooves.

It’s a gentle, careful, tilt of their head that allows for _Mand’alor_ to meet them in a _kov’nyn_. A greeting that is so achingly familiar to those around them whose _aliit_ is yet alive that it’s almost painful to watch.

[It is rumoured that _Kurs’agol_ had taken Old Jaster into themselves rather than let him go to _Manda_ straight away. If only so he could raise _Mand’alor_ from a closer vantage point. In moments like these it is almost believable.]

Moments of silence pass before _Kurs’agol_ huff another greeting and start to settle, gingerly as to not disturb _Mand’alor’s_ bring-along from its position.

It is always terrifically beautiful thing to have _Kurs’agol_ so close to them. So open that they would settle next to them and trust their _ori’ramikad’e_ to protect them in case any _aruetii_ would dare disturb a sacred ceremony.

 _Mand’alor_ offer the traditional dusting of their _aliit_ and _Kurs’agol_ moves into their hands with a gentle demand for the drawing that takes breaths away. Ochre-umber fingers draw the _aliik_ of _Kurs’agol_ into the bridge of their dark, furry snout.

At another beat of the drum, _Mand’alor_ bends his forehead to touch the hard plates of _Kurs’agol_ and commune with them as the Singer calls to ask for names.

Large, dark eyes close as _Kurs’agol_ sink into commune with _Mand’alor_ and their Singer – listen to the entreaties.

 _Mand’alor_ remains in the prone position, even as the drum ceases and their Singer’s voice loses its last echo over the ceremonial grounds.

And then, a snort, a breath that could almost be a laugh and _Mand’alor’s_ fingers loosen with one parting stroke from the head of _Kurs’agol_. Antlers scratch at rock when their head moves, painted muzzle parting to reveal a long, rough tongue that sweeps a wet caress over the bundle next to _Mand'alor_ and with the wisp of fog, they return to the Other World as quickly and quietly as they have come.

An exultant breath hangs over the congregation as the previous cargo, the bundle just blessed by _Kurs'agol_ , starts to move and the inquiring sound of an _ik'aad_ shatters the stillness.

 _Mand'alor_ bend over the head of the youngling, smear umber onto their brow.

" _Ni kartayl gai sa'ad, Boba_."

The entire congregation hears it and when _Mand'alor_ turn, their mask falls and to reveal the proud smile of a _buir_ , lifting his _ad_ to be seen by his family.

" _Briikase gai'tuur, Boba Vhett_."

" _Oya_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kurs'agol_ is a word-smash of the words **kurs** for 'Forest' and **agol** for 'Living Matter'. It's a bit of a wish-wash thing, admittedly, that's meant to represent, physically and spiritually, that which the Forest is made up from. It's both the feeling of shelter and mysticism you get when you wander deep into dense woods. As well as the physical representation - here in form of 'a deer, but big' of the living matter that presides in the forests. 
> 
> I also chose _gai'tuur_ instead of _gote'tuur_ because at this point Boba has already been living - his birth-day (lit.) has passed. Probably for about a year - which was a habit some peoples adhered to: waiting for roughly one year post birth before naming a child. One because child-mortality could tend to be high. But, two, because this year would also allow the child to show the first buds of their character and, thus, be named properly. 
> 
> Moreover, this draws on the idea that, in archaic cultures, the leader of a community would very often, too, be the spiritual leader. Here's the [post](https://mandalorianbrainweasel.tumblr.com/post/626493515786010624/tagging-crispyjenkins-because-weve-been-talking) of the muse who got me in on that particular idea :) [They have great content concerning Mando'a culture in general; can honestly only recommend]
> 
> **!!! I made this up !!! If there is any way I stepped on cultural toes please let me know! And I apologize if I did so! This was not my intention !!!**


	8. [M] Take Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to take care of you" with Cody/Ahsoka

\---

His hand snaps up to her elbow, almost in reflex. And he doesn’t pull – doesn’t dare; he’s seen the way she’s nursing it, he’d be surprised if it were uninjured – but he doesn’t let go either and, instead, steps right into her space. Feels the quick inhale and the brush of her front against his cuirass as he bends.

“Please take care of yourself, Commander,” he intones under his breath but he knows… No. This is the wrong way to say it. And he swallows at the prospect of the answer but another request slips onto his tongue.

“I want to take care of you,” he finally says. Quietly and honestly. Rex has told him a lot about his _alor’ika_ – mostly because Cody has asked – but it has never occurred to them to cover the subject of the Togruta in crisis. With a _vod_ he’d know exactly what to do. But this is a more delicate situation.

“Will you let me?”

Something like weariness creeps into her features, though if it is due to his request or due to the late hour, he couldn’t tell. She _has_ had a long few days and when Kenobi had asked her about the last time she’d rested she had not given a true answer. But here he is, too. Marshal Commander of the GAR, asking a Commander to ‘let him take care of her’. For all she knows this could go south very quickly but…

“ _Elek, alor,_ ” she exhales equally as quiet, tension flying from her shoulders as it rushes through his. “ _Vor’e_.”

[Rex has not told him that he was teaching his Commander _haar lalat_ and he’s going to kill the _shabuir_ next time he sees him for blind-siding Cody that way. _Fek_.]

They run right into shift-change, which means full showers and a lot of naked _vod’e_. It had been a miracle by itself that the _ad’ike_ had had the communal showers to themselves in the first place – though that may have been facilitated by his General – but by now the magical hour’s over and reality has seeped back in.

Reality looks like a Commander listing to her right with every step she makes until Cody’s heart sits in his throat and he picks her up with a quiet prayer not to cross Kenobi. [His troopers he can intimidate. This is harder to do with his superior officer.]

She’s stupidly light in his hold, warm even through the _beskar’gam_ and he knows that the plast-steel is uncomfortable, but the second he has settled her in the cradle of his arms, she sighs the most content sigh he has ever heard of her and snuggles right in.

If he needs a moment to collect himself right there in the middle of the hall-way… Well, there’s no one to rat on him and the surveillance team will know better than to snitch. [He does pay them a visit though, barely three days later, and bribes them with the finest hooch he’s been able to scrounge up. Visual hands over an unnamed data-chip without any further prompting.]

For all that she has been known to pull off ‘imposing’ Ahsoka Tano looks worryingly her age, nestled against his cuirass. And Cody is almost loathe to put her down once they are in his Quarters but-- he’s promised to take care of her.

“Commander,” he calls quietly to no avail. “Ahsoka.”

Cody knows that washing off should be more important now but… She’s non-reactive and his HUD isn’t quite tuned to deal with the medical specifics of her species. So he crosses the room, just to put her down on his cot for a second while removes his _buy’ce_.

The air is cool and it takes him a few blinks to accommodate to a visual input that does not include data from the helmet’s display. Looking at her without the visor between them feels twice as intimate and it only strikes him then that she is lying on his cot. In his Quarters.

“Ahsoka,” he tries again around the stone in his throat. Crouches down next to her head and hesitates before reaching for her shoulder. “Commander, you need to get up. You can’t wash like that.”

A murmur on her lips. A moue that he will keep in mind for a long time and, finally, the slow blink of her blues. “Shower?”

The croak of her voice is small and exhausted and Cody keeps his hand on her shoulder, when he nods. “I’ll be in there, too,” he lets her know – hesitates, briefly, because this is what he’d do with a _vod_ , but this is a _jetii_ – “So get out of your _gam_ and slip in. Water’s still good.”

He doesn’t think she could handle a sonic right now. Not if she’s anything like the _vod’e_ who come back from missions like hers – where everything went side-ways and then tilted back into axis again in the last possible moment. Where others depended on you and you had no concrete idea how to get them out of the situation except by surviving this moment and then the next and then the one after that.

Rex’ skin always felt too tight, the Captain had once divulged after one such mission. Like he’d spent a week in the desert and every drop of water had been sucked from him and the non-material insides of himself threatened to burst out of the seams.

He wonders what it feels like for the Togruta, but can’t hold the thought for long because Ahsoka moves to take off her bracers and doesn’t even bother to hesitate in his presence.

Which is humbling. But also titillating in a way he does not need right now.

He really hasn’t thought this one through, he berates himself when he stands and turns almost too quickly. Welcomes the rush of blood that swarms his head for a gratifying moment in which he grapples to find a next step. It’s the feel of his gauntlets against his temple that decides it for him.

Because if he _is_ going to help her, like he’s promised (like he’s asked) then he is going to need to get out of his own _gam_ too.

The click-clack of releasing magnets is a hypnotizing sound. A rhythm that he falls into mechanically. A familiar beat to the shedding of the day and it’s only when he’s down to his blacks that he hesitates once more, before he sheds his uppers too and eases the ties around his lowers but leaves them on.

Ahsoka, when he turns, doesn’t even bother with shyness as he seems to and a traitorous voice needles him to use that moment to go just as bare as she does. But Cody pays it no mind.

She is languid and tired when he carefully pulls her up by her lower arms – her wrists are so bruised and purple with the indents of mechanical fingers – and guides her steps towards the private fresher that is the reason Kenobi had chosen these to be his Quarters. He doesn’t often make use of them, because communal showers soothe more than just a dirty body but now and again it’s a good thing to have.

Like now.

He fiddles with the armature before they step in, mostly out of personal preference. He likes it better to step under a spray rather than have it start over his head but he has to reach around the Commander to do so and while he does, she remains motionlessly where he has stopped her in the circle of his arms.

Only when he is satisfied does he nudge her, gently, by the small of her back to step into the tiled fresher and follow closely, pulling the plastoid door closed behind him as the warmth of the shower fills the small cubicle.

It’s logical, he thinks as he reaches for the regulation soap and a towel, to start at the top of the body. If only because there’s no sense in washing the feet only to sluice the dirt of the upper body down their lines once he goes there. But it would be easier, probably, to hide the excitement he knows his body is not going to be able to avoid if he started the other way around.

“I’m going to wash you now,” he warns her softly, when both of them are wet from the head down to the toes. Cody looks, soap in one hand, washing towel in the other, until he sees the tiny agreeing nod of the Commander in front of him and sets a careful hand to her shoulder.

Predictably, she jumps.

“Easy, Commander,” he soothes as he starts to circle his hand – puts the wash-towel away on his shoulder for the moment, “It’s just me.”

He starts on her arms and hands, getting her used to his touch, because this is likely the easiest part. The part where he has the time and space to familiarize her at least a little with his touch before he gets to the rest of her body. And he hadn’t accounted for the fact that he, too, needed to get used to her under his fingers until Ahsoka sighs a soft little note and sinks her body into his.

The only reason Cody doesn’t freeze is because he is a battle-hardened soldier and he is _better than th_ _at_ _, thank you_. This doesn’t mean that the insides of his brain aren’t one big, loud exclamation mark before he breathes through it and mellows his thoughts down into something warm and steady. [He’s had enough times of his General finding the nicest words available to tell him to please tone down his mental pacing, lest he get a headache for two.]

When her arms are rinsed off, he thinks her montrals are also an easy part. If delicate. Because he remembers clearly the instructional manual that the General had left lying around after consuming it on the physicality of Togruta. Cody had read it out of boredom. But he cannot belie its serving him now.

The lekku are more sensitive, and he’s gentle – quick and efficient – when he cleans them, ignores the sub-vocal hitch of her breath when his hands pass over and under them twice, before they, too, are cleaned. And it takes him a moment here, because he knows that lekku are always, always, always _something_ to the species that sports them and she’s let him _touch them_. But he also knows that he doesn’t have the space here and now to really _think_ about it, so he takes a breath and bottles it up to somewhere he can look up later to inspect. He has a duty to his Commander now.

Cody doesn’t know if she turned out of her own motivation or if he indicated for her to, but when she lifts her face into the gentle spray of the shower, that is what he goes for next.

As gentle as he can make them, two of this fingers rise to hold her chin steady as the meaty flesh of his soapy hand comes up to rub at her brows, her forehead, her nose and her cheeks, her chin. He’s careful when his thumbs massage the soap into her skin and then rinse it off her face. But when he’s done, she lists forward, into the width of his bare chest and his mind wants to devolve into another bout of exclamation marks, but he bites his tongue before it can.

Instead, he starts on her shoulders and her back, easing his thumbs into the hard knots there and wincing a little at the uncomfortable groan from the Commander, vibrating against his sternum deliciously enough that another part of his body starts to take notice, before she breathes deeply and relaxes under him.

“That’s it,” he encourages her quietly as his thumbs continue to draw circles into the tender – slim, breakable, what-the-fuck – shoulders under his fingers. “Just let me...”

He can’t believe it’s taken him only this long to lose his rein over his bodily functions, but even while his blood pools in his groin, he settles his mind firmly onto the task. Washes her back carefully, with an arm slung around her middle to stabilize her while his sudsy hand skirts the plethora of scratches and bruises there. There’s a tell-tale bruise that he knows comes from rolling over unforgiving ground and he knows, when he’s done that she’s been thrown around like a rag-doll.

The image squeezes something under the arc of his ribs but he doesn’t comment on it and, instead, rinses her off until most of her upper body has been washed and what remains are the sides and the front.

He doesn’t steel himself for it when he straightens her by a shoulder and leans her back against the plasti-tile. Doesn’t let himself think about it, before his hands sweep down from the tender dips of her face and neck to her collarbones and around the swells of her chest. They’re smaller than the breasts he has seen on most of the females frequenting 79s, but Cody can’t help a soft twinge in his heart and groin that sighs at how _perfect_ they are. Proportionate. Strong. Beautiful.

But he cannot linger. Doesn’t want to make the Commander uncomfortable and doesn’t want to abuse the trust that she puts in him by letting him see her like this. He can’t treat her any different from a _vod_ \-- no, wait-- he has to treat her different from a _vod_ , but not when taking care of her like this. So he’s not thorough in his washing. Yet neither is he negligent. And when he is done, he moves on to the planes of her stomach, the dips of her hips and the indents of more private areas where he _won’t_ go.

Never mind that he’s touched her _lekku_ already, but there are lines – and even if he only draws them into malleable sand, they are drawn nevertheless.

He puts weight to the palms that smooth over her sides and under her arms, washes off the last of the grime and then suds up her own hands before he puts them to the areas he will not touch and doesn’t watch her while she washes as if sleep-walking.

Instead, he kneels down in front of her, waits until she is done, and carefully, but not teasingly, sets his hands high up on her thigh and coaxes the foam of the soap into existence on her skin.

Her eyes are closed when he dares to look and for the breath of a moment, he cannot believe that he is _here_ , with _her_ , in a _fresher_ and actually permitted to touch her.

It’s a giddy thought that spreads a tickling sort of warmth from his chest to his belly and the rest of his body and steals his breath. There is nothing in him that resists the sensation either. No fear of discovery or reprimand. His thoughts may not be private, but he cannot deny in this moment that his regard for her runs deeper than that which he has for others. He knows that he’s held certain sentiments for her – likely for longer than had been appropriate – but he had never quite been able to admit them. Even to himself.

But as he moves to washes her right leg, hard in his blacks but so much fuller in his heart, he knows that the thing he calls any other name than that which belongs to it, is more than the… love he has for a _vod_. He may not know her the way he wishes to, but this does not stop him from being in love with her.

And how could he not admit it now? When he finds himself in a position he’d sometimes allow himself to fantasize about – when the men were out, and their missions complete; when there was nothing to do and no one who needed him. When his hand wrapped around the root of his desire and his mind would run away with him. [The moments when he’d tell himself he only thought of her because of her _competence_ , because she was _exotic_ and the only seemingly available female around.]

She’s more beautiful than he’d ever even permitted himself to consider. Always shying away form a too detailed imagination even when it was to serve him for the moment – because what if he projected? What if his General’d find out?

But here she is, skin like red iron-oxide, darkened by purpling bruises and clotted wounds that tell him tales of her strength, decorated with the bright white of markings that shimmer under the water and wash clear of dirt under his hands. He can feel the strength in her legs when he raises his hands to wash her thighs, the slickness of the skin that’s so hairless if feels thrillingly _other_ against his calloused fingers. And when he raises his head from his prone position at her feet, he would stare right at the centre of her own desire – if ever she’d feel it. Marked with white, just as her face, and he wonders briefly if these markings, too, are as susceptible to change as the ones decorating her forehead and cheeks.

He pats the thigh of her left leg when he has rinsed off the right one and for a soul-rendering moment, just as she rolls her weight from one foot to the other, Ahsoka’s eyes open to look at him.

Down the lean length of her body, with a blue that cuts through half-open eyelids and a sway of her hips that makes him twitch in the tight confines of his blacks. She can’t know, he thinks when she’s closed her eyes again, what she does to him. And he stills the shaking of his fingers before he reaches for the soap and starts up her left leg.

It’s when he stands again that she notices his predicament. Has to, really.

The shower seems to have roused her some from her state of weary drowsiness and now that he has cleaned her, her eyes are more alert to her surroundings and him. Follow his ascent with widening awe-apprehension in them when she realizes the effect she has on him.

And he wants to explain. Wants to say--

But this is not the time.

 _This_ is the time when he has to treat her different from _vod’e_.

And so the only compromise he permits unto himself is to press a small, close-mouthed kiss to the corner of her lips. Three millimetres from where he wants to be and another five from where he should be. And moves away after that. Nothing more will he take. And nothing more will he need.

He washes her off once more, doesn’t brush her with the almost painful evidence of his arousal and doesn’t mention it even in a gesture.

When he steps out, it’s to coax her into the embrace of a warm, dry towel that he pats and smooths over her body until it’s dry and he hums amusedly when he realizes that no hair on the head means no excess dripping to stop when he pushes her out of the small fresher and into his room. He has to get dry himself before he follows her.

But when he does, Ahsoka is still swaddled in the big, white towel, sitting almost primly at the edge of his bed and his mind does a loop-de-loop that seems almost like an inquiry to his deecee that Cody very firmly denies before he turns and realizes that _someone_ has laid out clothes on his desk that aren’t his.

Cloth that looks too dainty to belong to him and when he moves to pick it up, he very carefully does not release a sigh. Kriff his General. But also bless him.

She is still a bit cool when he comes to pull the large black shirt over her montrals first, before he snakes her arms through the sleeves and only then makes to dress her in the sensible, standard-looking under-things and the tighter leggings. His curly hair drips on her nose, splashes a drop of water on her that he quickly wipes with his thumb.

When he moves away, he smiles at the first indication of actual _sense_ returning to her by way of darkened cheeks and slightly parted lips, but she is still too slow on the uptake not to worry him. Cody turns again and kits up in his blacks and armour. Half-up, half-down may be non-regulation, but he doesn’t ever feel comfortable in full _beskar’gam_ right after a shower, when his skin still has a sensation of soft, human squishiness. On the other hand he never goes without his weaponry and to don that, he needs at least his cuissses and the cod-plate, which are easiest to wear if he puts on the entirety of his lower armour.

Ahsoka is already standing and moving when he brings his attention back to her and as he stretches his hand out for her, there is the gentlest of smiles on her face.

“See the younglings?” he asks quietly when her hand – so small and yet so strong – comes to lie in his. The tilt of her head and the spreading smile on her lips is all the reward he feels he needs so he squeezes her fingers one last time before he opens the door of his Quarters and motions for her to follow.

…

The door to the bunks has barely hissed open when the first set of eyes already finds them. Large and blue like galaxies and Cody knows why Ahsoka steps through and closes the door right behind her. The Rodian youngling doesn’t jump into her arms – _doesn’t_ – but there is relief in their shoulders when Ahsoka touches their head and accepts the tilting form of another youngling into her side.

It takes very little cajoling to gather the young ones on one mattress and Cody’s heart squeezes when he realizes that what some of his brothers consider an after-action ritual – piling up in the bunk and just-not-shaking-apart under the familiar weight of each others limbs – is an instinctive reaction even in _jetiise ad’ike_.

When all of them have rolled into tiny spots, all touching, all just barely not shivering from not-cold, Ahsoka sits herself just so that she can see the doors and after a bit of contemplation, Cody, too positions himself. Close to her, because he can see the demands of sleep pulling at her. But angling his body in a way that will make it both available to her for resting as well as give him a perfect shot of the door.

The young ones have long fallen asleep before Ahsoka’s eyes find him in the low light of the bunks and she tilts her head until it rests on his chest. He doesn’t know if they shuffle to accomplish it, but her body sinks into the vee of his thighs and her hand comes up to rest over the beat of his heart. And even if he doesn’t close even a single eye the whole night, he is more awake the next day than caff could ever make him.

…

[The moment the door has closed behind the Generals, Rex watches as Cody follows the gentle Tug of Ahsoka's hand on the lapel of his cuirass into a Keldabe Kiss. For a moment he is stiff as a board before his entire countenance softens and he melts into her gesture. Subconsciosly their hands raise, hold at the shoulders of the other, the neck. There's a blush dusting dark-ish cheeks and Rex wonders with a warm softness in his heart if he is now complicit to another unsanctioned union of one of his Superior Officers.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * _Technically_ this could be seen as being a thing that happened post 'The Search'-Arc when Obi-Wan picks up Ahsoka and the littles from Hondo... 
>   * I know that **Mando'a** is the right way to say 'language of the Mandalorians' and I'm sorry that I'm fudging this up here a little with **haar lalat** which translates, roughly, into 'the tongue'. I think it's something that I sort of picked up from Irish? They have, if I remember correctly, two words for language, one of which is 'tongue' and the other one being 'language' - now 'tongue' relates to the Gaelic language while 'Bearla' relates to the English language, which is language but not their original mother-tongue... I liked the differentiation and tried to include it here. **If I completely fudged this notion up and insulted Irish in the same move please let me know!!!**
>   * I chose to write red iron-oxide instead of Sienna because… well, the colour is named for the earth around the Italian city of Siena, which doesn’t technically, exist in the Star Wars Universe? But I’m certain that the colour itself exists even in space and I wanted to use it for as neutral a description of Ahsoka’s skin as possible (I’m not super content but I did my best). Tl;dr: Ahsoka’s skin is ‘sienna-red’; red iron-oxide is basically a chemical description of the make-up. Vor’e. 
> 



	9. [M] Land of Mist and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An arctic warrior of unkown age. Has long hair held back from the face with a bandana. Tribal markings in blue pain from left eyebrow to cheek and from bottom-lip to chin. Wears leathers and furs. Caries weapon on the back and rides a white mount." With Tup/Dogma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so supremely _dissatisfied_ with this!!! I can't even begin to tell you how much I struggled with this because... it was a _story_. Or it wanted to be one anyway and I wrote like most of it in one day despite working 8 hours but then it just didn't want to get _done_ so... Have a part of it. Like... almost the end of it...

\---

“Sir! Please! Reconsider! What you’re doing will incite a _war_!”

He’s never properly looked, maybe, but the Doc’s eyes glint with something that looks almost _manic_. Dogma would call it desperate but Lords of the Republic probably didn’t get desperate or something.

The gun in his hand doesn’t waver from where it is pointed squarely at the chest of the _alor’ad_. The man who’d taken them in. Who’d sent his son to find them and shield them from the indomitable ices up on the surface. The man who’d shown Dogma around the cavernous systems himself. Who’d had patience for him when others would lose it and who gave him--

Right.

He’s just a linguist. Just a mishappen wildling-bastard who had the fortune of a good mentor and patron who paid for classes in a higher education where people paler than the underside of his hand spit and laughed at him or, alternating that, sneered at the quick way his tongue would pick up new sounds and his head would learn syntaxes.

For all that he’s good at what he does, he knows that there will never be renown for him back in the Republic. And the only reason he has been asked to come along to this particular voyage is because once, he’d been stolen from here and the Lords of the Republic had thought that, perhaps, he would have an easier time of communicating their cause, as represented by the venerated Doctor Krell.

Only Krell is pointing a gun at the highest ranking member of the tribe they’d found. Pale and steady, despite that glint in his eyes.

“War,” he hums as if contemplating it. “What a ludicrous idea. The Republic would run these ingenues to the ground without even a thought and when I offer immunity-- when I offer, from the grace of my heart, the survival of his men were he to bend the knee--!”

Dogma sees the problem.

He also sees the finger on the depressor and doesn’t hesitate.

[It’s a sound not unlike losing air, he thinks, as the body of the Lord jolts under his blade and the _alor’ad_ rolls to the side, evading the bullet that goes wild. A throaty gasp and then, not even a gurgle as he loses life.]

…

The gesture of a smile feels awkward on his face, even as he accepts the pats on his shoulders and his back. The toasts made towards him and the spiced _shig_ that the warriors – female and male alike – push into his hand in celebration.

He committed a crime.

He killed a man and that does not warrant celebration, he thinks. It should never be a joyous occasion when a life is lost, and yet here he sits, ears pointed for any snippets of sentences that he might partially understand, and apparently the only one to consider that what he has done is _wrong_.

Dogma should not be smiled at. Should not be laughed with. Should not… He should not freely be given things.

Not when he’d arrived with the man who’d made an attempt on the life of the _alor’ad_. Not when he has not been able to look at Tup – the _alor’ika_ – with anything akin to decency since that night by the pool when he’d… [It’d been an accident. And he knows, now, that this society does not frown upon those lovers who look to men as Gentlemen of the Republic are only allowed to behind closed doors and wearing the armour of both name and prestige. But he still only dares to look at those moments in the quietest of secluded spots he can find in the underground tunnels. Like inspecting gems he doesn’t want others to know of.]

And once upon a time he may have belonged here.

He may have been born in these ices, to a couple that had bled and fought for him until the superior weaponry of the Republic had taken their lives and he had been shipped away to a country that did him no service. Except for that of Shaak Ti, who taught him how to speak and how to imitate the wildlife around him until every word was only a sound he had to repeat and the logic of languages followed almost of its own.

But now… Now he doesn’t belong here.

…

He sights the town after the sun has set twice, and the stars have guided him sea-wards unerringly even when the night-sky wavered.

His throat is tight whenever he thinks of the night he’s spent above ground, freezing his posterior off with the rest of the little ones, learning the patterns of the changing sky after dusk.

And even though he knows he should rush straight to the heart of its streets, demand their deputy and confess, he cannot help but call his mount to halt a good three hours before entering the coast-village.

His heart sits heavy in his chest. Yowls at him to turn around – if only to _look_. One last time, it whimpers. _Please_. But he knows that if he trains his eyes on the Southern Horizon, he will see, without the aid of stars, the exact way home. Will know just how hard to ride to reach the caves by the second sun-down. He knows that once he turns back, he will never set foot on Republic Soil ever again.

Dogma parks himself in the unforgiving cold of the ground a few steps away from his mount. Trying to sort through his feelings. The heaviness in his heart. The pulsating pain of his ribs. The tightness in his throat. The painful twists of his stomach that he doesn’t know if he will ever be able to untangle. [Will it be better once he is on the ship? Will it get worse?]

And the ever unbidden and ever unrelenting question that echoes in his mind: What do you want?

What does Dogma want?

Should the question not rather be: What can he have?

Is it truly in his cards to remain here?

Once upon a time he may have been a denizen of these snow-deserts. But that had been before he’d learned the taste of sugared tea. Before he’d realized that no one quite had the same skin as he did. Before he’d known the red poppy seas of summer fields.

Now he freezes at the slightest breeze above ground. Now he coughs at the spices that burn his tongue in the dishes of what could once have been his people’s fare. Now he stumbles over the lilting, swooping song of a language that could have been his mother-tongue. Now he communicates only with a version of their dialect and counts himself lucky if he can find the words even then. Now he finds nothing familiar in the things that had once meant _home_ to him.

Can he truly expect, from himself, to remain here and find that ever elusive sensation of happiness? [That which had evaded him so long in the Republic. That which would be the only thing worth staying for.]

He is, as he’d told the _alor_ , the bird on the fence.

That which flies both pastures but belongs on neither ground. Not that of the Republic. And not this one either.

…

“Dogma.”

No, he thinks at first. Go away. Please. Please go away.

But there’s a hand on his shoulder. Heavy and warm and hidden in thick mittens, lined with seal-fur that he knows to be warmer than the sun in the Republic and even though he doesn’t turn, the keeper of the voice settles closer.

Their mounts grunt. Greet each other. And a heavy weight falls to the back of his head.

“You ran away,” Tup says. Wonders.

Dogma can tell he’s confused. But that’s a good thing, probably. Dogma’s confused as well.

He has been, he thinks, from the first time he’s set eyes on Tup. The _alor’ika_ who blew into the wind-shaken tent that the guards had erected out in the middle of nowhere to hold both him and Krell alive after they’d tied them up and kept them for prisoner. The man who’d snorted at Krell’s indignance and who’d lifted his visor to gift Dogma with the most beautiful face he’d ever seen walk the Earth.

Dogma remembers even now the shame he’d felt when he’d realized that he was staring. Trying to parse the meaning behind the tribal paint on Tup’s forehead and his chin. Trying to fall into eyes he hadn’t even been aware he was trying to drown himself in.

No wonder Fives had snickered.

He must have looked like an idiot right off the bat.

“Please come back,” Tup says quietly. And where he expects the chill of the visor, all he gets is the warmth of Tup’s bandana settling into his neck as the other man sits down behind him. Doesn’t wrap around him – doesn’t hold him – but touches nevertheless.

“I can’t,” he responds without thinking.

Because it’s true. Or at least-- “I shouldn’t.” There. That is true.

He shouldn’t. He should walk into that village and step onto the next Caravelle to get him back to the Republic, where he’d be tried for murder if he even made it that far. If any deity existed that had pity on him, maybe they’d drown him on the sea before that. But the intention should be clear. Should be obvious. Honour would demand it of him. Loyalty would demand it of him.

But also--

“What would I even do here, Tup? I’m a _linguist_. I study _languages_. It’s…” he doesn’t like saying it but, “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

He’s too rigid for anything else. Too slow. Too dumb. Too categoric in his thinking. Too literal when taking orders. It’s taken him _years_ to understand even the basest layers of the Republic Society, but he knows he can build on that whereas _here_ , he’d have to learn it all over again. Look for cues he’d have to learn first. Learn the language…

Well. That would likely not be the major problem. He loves languages. He’s good at them. Good at learning them.

“They don’t even value you,” Tup groans, moves closer to glue his front to his back.

The snow thaws between the shared heat of their bodies, but it still feels good to have Tup at his back. To know that there is a weapon across the shoulder of his… of his friend. One that he knows how to wield and when to unsheathe. He feels safe. Protected.

Something, he knows, he’d never have in the Republic. Never has had. And never will have.

He is impotent there. Incapable of protecting himself, let alone someone else and…

And he’s lonely, he finally admits to himself.

Being told, time and time again, that the sorts of sports and leisure that his age-peers would engage in were not befit of his station, yet laughed at for his ignorance of them at the next turn has set much of the tone of his social interactions. Since Lady Ti’s demise, there is no friendship for him in the Republic. There is no profession waiting for him either, never mind how proficient he is. And there will be nothing in the way of a romantic – or even economic – liaison with anyone else.

“I’ll be lonely,” he agrees with something like sombre realization. For a long time. If not forever. And loneliness, he’s learned, is not some illness one can cure with medicine.

Finally, he tears his unseeing eyes away from the side of the outermost hut of the village he can see and turns it into the fur-lined hood of his friend. “I’m scared,” he confesses. A whisper. Nothing more than a breath, but Tup’s amber eyes catch his nevertheless and his friend lifts his hand to the junction of his shoulder and neck, turning him almost uncomfortably, but Dogma goes.

“I know,” he finally says. “And you have every reason to be, because what I’m asking you would mean leaving everything behind that you know but… You have a place with us. Please. I’ve heard what you said to _buir_ about being the bird that flies but never touches down and-- _Please_ , rest your wings. Even if only a little. Please.”

It’s not fair, he thinks, to put the demand of Republican Honour onto the shoulders of one who is not even regarded as a man of its Soil but--

“I killed Krell.”

“He was going to shoot my _buir_ and I am very inclined to forgive you for that.”

“But it’s wrong to kill.”

Something like an ‘Oh’ sound breathes out of Tup before his forehead settles on Dogma’s and… he’s seen the gesture in the caves often enough to know that this is innocent in nature but to have Tup so close is the sweetest thing he’d never known how to crave.

“Yes,” Tup finally admits. “It is wrong to kill for avarice and desire of the flesh and for joy. But the defence of others is why warriors exist, Dogma. And if you would like it, we would very much welcome you as one.”

“I’m not certain I’d be good at all that fighting.”

“D’you want to try though?”

There it is again: Do you want--?

Dogma swallows against the tide of fear that rises in him and grips tightly at the neck of Tup. “Yeah. I want to try at least.”

Tup’s nose kisses the bridge of Dogma’s and they breathe the same rhythm for an indescribable amount of time that Dogma will never forget.

He stays.

…

[Two years later Dogma learns the taste of Tup’s lips, when he returns from negotiations with the new pair of Republic Scouts that have reached the Ices. He comes back with a new addition to the clan, and a promise of the Scouts to conveniently forget the Plains for a while.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to make the attempt to shape the actual story up and if it gets done I'll post the link here ;)


	10. [T] Oenomel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oenomel: something combining strength with sweetness - with Hardcase/Fives/Echo

\---

The lights glint sombrely to the left and right of him, half-painting him, half-hiding him in a mysterious shade that sits at odds with the happy wrinkles around his eyes when he lifts the glass gingerly to his lips.

“What’s this one?” he asks, guiding it high enough to smell it. Something strong and sweet greets him – with the potential both to cloy and knock him off his feet. He’s not _certain_ , but their barkeep usually knows what he’s doing.

“The oenomel,” the man presents, wiping another wet, hot glass from the rack before he puts it away over his head.

Customers have long since been commandeered outside where, even as far from the surface as they are, the morning lights are slowly painting the wet, littered streets in a wan sheen of brightness.

“The what?”

It’s a good thing it’s not him asking, he thinks. He likes to keep an air of knowledge around himself. Something that says ‘professional enough’ at the very least. Considering his attention-spans sometimes that air can be hard in earning and keeping. Not that either of these two don’t know him well enough by now to be aware of this – better than most, certainly.

“Oenomel,” their barkeep repeats, motioning towards the glasses. “Taste it.”

Hardcase _doesn’t_ linger on the way that the white cloth of the shirt tightens around the upper arm that sweeps for the gesture before it returns a glass to its proper place and he most certainly doesn’t think about that one time way-back when they’d thought they’d _lost_ \-- Well… No use going there.

He takes a sip. Makes a face. “...Sweet,” he says roughly almost as if in reproach. But the thing is that the drink, too, burns down a trail down his innards that is just this side of pleasant and before he can correct himself, his neighbour coughs something awful.

“Strong,” the other winces, huffing another breath and clearly regretting the big swig they’d taken from their glass.

Even without making the face, their barkeep looks unbearably smug. “Oenomel,” he motions towards the glasses again, “is a description for something that combines strength with sweetness.”

“You’ve been having a peek at Echo’s _Vernacular Calender_ haven’t you?” he accuses quietly when he takes another sip. Careful this time, trying to parse the ingredients. He never does get it right, but it always makes Fives happy when he tries.

“What did you really call it?” Echo asks, stalls for time judged by the wink he throws Hardcase and ‘case would appreciate it, really. But the flirty gesture steals the ground under his feet a little and he just barely doesn’t miss the rim of his glass for the next sip.

Fives, thankfully, deigns to ignore his small hiccup. “What do you mean?”

“Come _on_ , Fives,” he groans, boot thumping against the wooden encasing of the bar in impatience that he regrets almost immediately. He bites his lip instead of ducking his head. “’s not like we don’t know that you have Working Titles for your drinks like Echo does for his… publications.”

Which is likely a more delicate way to frame the romantic novels that Echo had been writing since the first year of the war – as, in his words ‘stress relief’ – but could only claim fortune to since being recognized as a citizen of the Republic. Had he been born in any other circumstance, Hardcase might have considered his works base and unreadable, but he’s a simple man, from a simple cloning vat and--

“Shut up, you read those.”

\--Echo’s prose is a one-for-all.

“ _Avidly_ ,” he grins unrepentantly and takes a sip after saluting the man next to him. “Doesn’t mean that the target audience is clearly someone _not-_ me.”

Because for all that ‘homoerotic content’ is involved in Echo’s writings, statistics have shown that more often than not it’s women who empty the racks and shelves of his latest copies. Echo is _comfortable_ , which is what had prompted him in the first place to help fund Fives’ idea of a bar. Right in the core of a level most renowned for being a party-hub frequented by both surface- and underground-dwellers.

It’s a lovely two-storey building, right on the corner behind one of the most famous bars frequented by folks of all walks of life, with an interior to die for and Fives had managed to pay Echo back within two years before they’d even decided to buy the building instead of renting.

Hardcase knows that two levels up is one of the most fortified mock-ups of a home that has ever had the misfortune of being built. [Fives and Echo may not be high profile enough to warrant an attack on their lives, but they are soldiers and ARC at that. They know the value of a good decoy. Especially if it gives them the time and space to leisurely meander to the true home through an almost idyllic back-road that no one knows or speaks of.]

“It makes good money,” Fives defends Echo, sprinkling the last remnants of warm water at Hardcase as if in admonishment.

He makes a face. “Not disputing that either, Fiv’ika,” he grumbles as he wipes the wetness off his face, “But you still haven’t told us what the in-official name for the drink is.”

Even if it didn’t make him the money it does now, Hardcase would never judge a _vod_ for the profession they’d taken up post-war. It’s odd being a citizen sometimes. Having to learn taxes. Having to earn a living – or… well, not having to, but wanting to. [They are taken care of by the war-pension their _jetiise_ had hammered out for them. Well, the Council and--]

“…The Amidala,” Fives admits grudgingly.

For a moment, there is silence, before Echo takes another sip of the drink and hums. “…I like it better than your final title,” he declares then.

Hardcase envies Echo the easy way he has at telling these sorts of things to Fives and nods firmly when the bar-keep gives him a look.

“Yeah?”

He nods again. “Yeah.” Definitely.

Something oddly shy, almost reluctant, spreads on Fives face when he moves the rack back into the dishwasher and dries his hands. “You sure I can do that? Considering the thing with the General…”

They don’t, usually, talk about the giant not-kark-up of their General. He’s a good man, they know this. He has defended them on the battle-field time and time again. He had been one of the few _jetiise_ to lead assaults with his _kad_ burning brightly like a war-banner while also having their backs in just a matter of a few neck-breaking jumps.

For this, they love him.

However, there is also the fact that he had probably picked the worst moment and fashion to publicize his _marriage_ to Senator Padmé Amidala – who had, at the time, been expecting a child from him. Children, to be precise, but they hadn’t been aware of the second ankle-biter hiding behind the first during ultra-sounds then.

The press had had a field day of it and General Skywalker had been in the most pitiful dog-house the entirety of the GAR had likely ever seen. _Yularen_ had groaned into his hands. And Hardcase still cannot remember any other circumstance under which the Admiral had ever lost his perfect countenance like had then.

Amidala has the patience of a saint, however, and the strength of a horde of rancors to go with. Which resulted in her handling the press, handling the Senate, giving birth to two beautiful twins that have been the eye-apples of the entire 501st _and_ handling General Skywalker and the Jedi Council at circa the same time.

“Fives,” he sighs, as if to tear himself out of the loops of his thoughts, “If any of the _vod’e_ can get away with naming something after the Senator, it’s probably someone from the 501st.”

Echo snorts. “And Kenobi.”

“I said _vod’e_.”

The man next to him weighs his head on his shoulders in consideration. “Weeeell,” he draws out, “technically speaking…”

“No,” he knows where this is going. And he does _not_ want to have to consider the fact that the Marshal Commander and his General-- “nononononono. In-laws do _not_ count.”

Fives smirks when he leans forward onto the smallish strip of bar that separates them. His elbows fit just between Echo’s and Hardcase’s glasses, but he moves his own nevertheless. Because he flails, sometimes and Fives knows the buttons to push. “That’s not what Mandalorian law says.”

“Well we’re not Mandalorian.” Hardcase doesn’t want to _be_ Mandalorian. He doesn’t _want_ to swear any sort of fealty to that red-head successor of her sister on a throne that had pushed out the Prime Template and had made him available to The Sith in the first place. _And_ who had also considered it a _good_ idea to get chummy with _Deathwatch_ of all things.

The only other politician who is as unlikely to make it on his ‘Acceptable’-List, and even more unlikely to make it on his ‘Respectable’-List is _Lux farking Bonterri_. And the kid had dealt them a _personal_ slight when he’d publicly blown off their Commander like she was some sort of spoilt fruit.

But Fives knows that, which is why he has to be an absolute _shabuir_ about it. “We’re as good as Mandalorian.”

He doesn’t throw the drink at him. But only because it’s good. “Kark you.”

A move, a brush of a damp arm to his own, bare, dry one. “I’d really rather have you between Echo and me.”

It’s almost a soft thing of an invitation. One that Hardcase isn’t certain he has actually heard before Echo’s coughing fit disrupts the _moment_ and ‘case’s hand moves automatically to slap at the back of his _vod._

“Well then don’t _kill_ Echo before that,” he admonishes. Diverts. Allots himself time to parse the actual words that had just left Fives' mouth.

Fives has always been good at impulsiveness and it’s entirely possible Echo hadn’t even known about this until now and Hardcase may be soft for the both of them something _stupid_ but he knows a package deal when he sees one and Fives and Echo are it.

At this point probably all of the remaining _vod’e_ are trying to figure out how long it is going to take the two of them to finally say the vows. But Fives’ smirk speaks of no intention to do so any time soon. Or to let up on the subject either.

“I’ll try,” he returns, leaning on the arm that had just brushed at him to give them an almost lazy grin and it’s only then that Hardcase notices his own hand still rubbing circles into Echo’s shoulders. He drops it. Bites his lip and doesn’t duck his head.

“So…,” the barkeep nods his chin, “The Amidala.”

He’s pleased at the name change. Nods quickly. “Is a yes. Both to name and to taste.”

Fives’ satisfied grin hasn’t dropped from his face and Hardcase wonders just _which_ trap he has fallen for when he rumbles a pleased, “Good.”

And it hits him in the next moment, when a heavy, warm weight drops against the length of his back that he has _completely_ left his back open to an ambush from an ARC-trooper who seems to have come around from his coughing fit and has only a modicum of compunction about moving his own fingers to trail the exposed underside of Hardcase’s lower arm.

“And about--”

Oooooh, _sneaky._

“Yes,” he breathes lightly. Swallows and bites his lip when the fingers circle his pulse-point.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to warrant an invitation but even if this is the only time it’ll happen, Hardcase will embrace it with both hands and stow the memory away for when he will need to travel for business.

Despite Echo’s efforts to the contrary, Hardcase finds his train of thought again and motions towards the glass on his bar when he looks at Fives – draped over the wood like a cat who’d gotten the bird and the cream. “Just don’t ply me with too many of those,” he warns. “I want to remember all that when it happens.”

[Only, he doesn’t have to hold on to the memory for long before Echo pulls him between the two of them again. And despite the bets on the two of them, it just… keeps happening.]


	11. [T] Slow is Steady, Steady is Smooth, Smooth is Quick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He has no idea what he's missing" with Ahsoka & Tera Sinube

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very happy with this. It feels like a large part of the story is still stuck in my head and didn't get down on 'paper' the way it should have and as a result there's probably a few plotholes in there. I did my best but I think I'm going to try to cap the chapters at roughly 1000 words, see what happens to the story integrity when I do.

\--–

He finds her deep in the penumbra of the archives, floating stacks of data-pads before her with her usual care and focus, while a small anti-grav table floats after her, stacked with those tomes that Tera knows Jo is very cautious about not being treated with the Force. _They are delicate_ , she would say with a wry smile. _They need the soft touch of a hand just like a youngling_. It’s an honour to be allowed alone-time with them in any way possible. One that he’s not even certain is occurring to the young-one who stops to vanish in an aisle, returning three pads lighter.

It’d be easy to talk to her now. Abuse her moment of social inattention to sidle up.

But he’s well aware that Jo would _know_ if any of the pads were scratched or dented because they fell and he is loath both to shock his young friend from what looks like peacefulness in her duty. As well as be the reason for Jo’s distrust of the both of them.

So he waits.

His friend has two healthy young legs and a quick wit to go with so it won’t take her long to fulfil her task at all, and Tera knows that he could use the time for some introspection himself.

…

It seems like a brief period of respite, before the waft of sweet _senzha_ rouses him from his meditation and he opens his eyes to find the very young lady herself whom he’d come to seek out. She greets him with a smile that’s as soft as it is wan.

“Madame Nu has let me bring the cup, but she was very adamant that we shall have it anywhere else but the library,” she offers her arm to him. Subtly, in a way she has somehow gotten used to when he hasn’t been looking.

Sometimes the stretches of time that take her away from the Temple seem like a small eternity and when she returns, she is always somehow _other_ than when she had been before. Even now, after the war.

“Well then, my friend,” he muses as he swings himself up and off the cushioned seat, _without_ her help, “we would do best to heed Jo. She can be very strict about her rules in here and we have much leeway to lose if we were to incite her ire.”

Ahsoka nods as she caps the cup of tea in her hands again and stands to his side when he starts to make his way towards a side-exit he is not certain she is aware of.

It’s an odd thing, he thinks, to see her now, after the war, when he’d only had glimpses of her while it had lasted. And then had, as many others in the Temple, lost sight of her. She has grown so much. Not merely in hight but in spirit – in the Force. Where she had shone brightly before, she was now just as glowing a beacon, but with a hidden depth to it. With something _more_ to it that one couldn’t quite parse by just looking. And even if one got closer there was a likelihood of never quite uncovering the reason for this new addition to her feeling in the force.

Tera is quite content to let her have her secrets. And to give her time. Ahsoka, even as she slows her ground-taking steps to match his pace, knows this. It is, he likes to think, one of the things she may have learned from him instead of her Master.

She smiles surprised when he guides her to and through the side-exit, hidden behind a few well-placed book-cases yet no less protected. [And even more so since the shock of the unsuccessful raid on the Temple.]

But the small path to a garden remains and when they emerge on a small terrace, they are alone.

Good.

Ahsoka is steady when she puts down the tray with their fare and is amenable when he himself takes a seat to find one next to him. 

From up here Coruscant looks almost beautiful. Shimmery as its name heralds and buzzing with life whose noise one cannot hear from their spot. A good view to meditate on should one so desire but that is not Tera's goal today. 

"How have you been, my friend?" he starts quietly, setting his cane aside to reach a clawed hand for one of the cups of _senzha_. 

He's getting on in his years, he knows. But one of the good things that come from it is the forever gratifying light of surprise in the eyes on the young ones when they are addressed as a comrade. Ahsoka Tano is no different. If, mayhap, more in want of company than she would like to openly admit. 

"I've been blessed to live in interesting times, Master," she returns with a small glint of something in her eyes. It doesn't counter her argument so much as give it a double entendre he supposes. 

He hums. "Some might call it a curse." 

Ahsoka sighs. Doesn't hide the way her head lowers and hangs and her shoulders hunch. 

She's tired. 

"You're here to talk to me about the Bonteri-Debacle?", she asks softly. 

It's not a reproach. None of that is to be found in her young voice except maybe resignation. Tera looks. 

"Only if you need to talk about it, my friend. I'd much rather hear of your years away if you'd like. Or even your opinion on Lott Dod's recent fall from grace." 

The air between them stills expectantly and Tera takes the time to sip on his tea. It has the bitter undertone of someone who is not used to preparing it - or is out of practice - but it is sweetened to his liking. An acceptable cup all in all. 

Finally Ahsoka seems to have found the answer she'd been searching for and she moves to grab her own cup. Carefully and slowly as she turns over a new problem in her mind. 

"I think it's curious that even with all standing accusations against him, Lott Dod is still a very public figure. And given all accolades and platforms as such." 

He hums an agreeing noise and looks ahead. "It seems some people have the trick of using the leniency of others to the fullest." 

Ahsoka's shoulders straighten. "Do you truly think it's merely leniency?" 

An interesting concept, certainly. He weighs his head. He has not seen many revolutions as that which had taken place at the end of the wars - the Supreme Chancellor unseated, the Senate in uproar and the Jedi Order nearly in shambles. 

Ahsoka herself had had no small part in the events of that day. Even without recent press releases she has made quite the name for herself. 

Despite not even being a Knight yet. Officially. 

"It's no hard thing to slip through the bureaucratic gaps of reforming politics for one who has earned his livelihood in such a manner for their entire life," he counters. Lott Dod could very well be on his own and still pose a sort of threat. 

Ahsoka nods. "What seems odd to me is that at closer inspection the Trade Federation has done a lot of work to strengthen the Separatist cause or render the Republic Senate useless at the least while we were still at war. There have been many instances in which they have outright sided with the Separatists. Now that the war is over and the Senate more agreeable to allowing planets and systems their own regency once more, the Trade Federation would have a much easier time of actually conducting their business were they to strike out independently. And yet here is Lott Dod, scrabbling to keep hold of his seat in a Senate that will do him no profitable favors in the next few years. Or should in any case. So I'm wondering."

He does not begrudge her the quickness of her mind - indeed it is a pleasure to watch. Reminds him of himself when he was still in his prime. Oh what a time he's had of it. 

"You're wondering if maybe he has a way of making profit that we do not know of… An unsanctioned way." 

Ahsoka weighs her head. "Let's put it like that."

It's not impossible. Granted. There has likely never been a more slippery Neimoidian than Lott Dod himself. Still. 

"And yet there has been a fresh envoy from the Trade Federation just a few days ago. It's been rumored that a replacement representative has been sent with it." 

Incidentally right the day before the press had released Lux Bonteri's statement about his relationship to Ahsoka Tano. 

His friend cocks her head. "I haven't heard of that. "

Tera takes a gratuitous sip of his tea. It pays off ever so often to keep his contacts well reminded of him and his prowess (even in his age). Ahsoka's eyes slide to him and he doesn't think for a second that she falls for his act. 

It is, frankly, one of the things he much appreciates about this grown version of her. She is shrewd in a way she hadn't been before. 

"You mean they are attempting to cut him off?" 

It certainly looks that way. 

Ahsoka mulls this over. "I'm not certain I'd trust that. Something about it feels odd but I wouldn't be able to say what exactly if I didn't see it for myself." 

"Accompany me then," he proposes guilelessly. "The Council has bid me investigate this new development. Mostly on grounds of post-war suspicions. And because the Order wishes to be seen in the right light once more. It would do them no good to allow someone such as Lott Dod to blindside them a second time."

There's a smile on her lips that looks genuine. The first he's seen since he's found her in the archives. 

"And you'd need me because?" 

Tera clears his throat to find the right intonation and then let's the mask of the old doddering fool fall over his face that she, herself, had once fallen for. 

"I am an old man with a task that is too much for me to undertake all by my lonesome and your feet look young and restless." 

She is _delighted_ in the Force. Eyes sparkling and Force laughing its tinkling song between them.

But just as he had learned, so had she in her years of absence and he watches her giddily as she places the mask of confused innocence over her face. 

"You'll have need of my feet, Master Sinube? Do you expect there to be running?" 

He smiles then. Masks forgotten and already standing as the small droid from the corner of the terrace comes to clear away their tray. 

"I _have_ been invited to parlay with a representative of the Trade Federation," he intones. "I'm saying there have been precedents."

…

"This is odd," she motions towards the log in her hands. "The scanner picked up five life forms but according to the log only four people paid their docking fees?" 

She moves to the side just enough to make the entries visible to both himself as well as the CSF-guard who'd volunteered to come along with them. Transport and docking is not their usual fare, but he's heard Ahsoka ask about the Commander and remembers that there's been some tension among the clone-soldiers from Ahsoka's guard and that of the city itself after her apprehension during her wrong trial.

The man furrows his brow when he reaches for the pads and Ahsoka gives it over without a word. 

A few taps later and the dock-recording jumps up on the screen. 

"There," he indicates. "That's where the fifth came from." 

A chest. Hovering after the small congregation of Neimoidians on anti-grav axels.

Ahsoka sighs but doesn't say much. The man is not so contained. 

"Y'can't trust _any_ species wit'a long neck," he growls when he zooms in. 

Slowly, the shape of a being cristallizes on the heat-scanner. Lying, hopefully unconscious, on the bottom of the big trunk that bobbles after the representative of the Trade Federation. 

"Can you tell where it went?" his friend asks the man, but he is already shaking his head. 

"Diplomatic envoys have immunity, the moment they're registered in the Courscant Security system, their whereabouts classify automatically and I don't have the clearance." 

Tera ponders this for a moment. 

"But the fifth signature… Aren't they technically an illegal immigrant?" 

The clone's eyes shine with unfettered awe when he turns at him and Ahsoka's smile seems to glow just the same.

…

It's difficult to find a being when there is no concrete data on them. No height. No species. No name. No face. 

Only heat. 

Somehow, however, the CSF-guard swears he can manage to track their signature down. It will, however, take time. 

Time Tera and Ahsoka take to visit the congregation and maybe hope for an innocent chest hovering at the side of the room. 

…

What they get is the end-tail of a verbal quarrel cueing seamlessly a physical struggle between Dod and the new representative when they charge into the room. 

For a second everyone freezes and Lott Dod has the face of one who knows he's played his last hand ere desperation sets in and he hurls the representative at them.

Tera barely gestures after the fleeing figure before Ahsoka launches her body after him and out of the window. 

Ah, the athletic enthusiasm of the young. 

Tera turns to the cowering Neimoidian with a soft smile and the mask of the old, doddering sentient falling in place. 

"Come then, my dear, let's see if we can't find you something to drink and fortify your nerves." 

… 

It's an uncomfortable confession, but Lott Dod evades her. Which is why she grudgingly takes Hound's call as to the whereabouts of the mysterious heat-signature and decides to follow that trail for a while. It ends surprisingly close to the docks again, leading her almost in a circle, when she opens the large container indicated by Hound and finds… The chest. 

She doesn't command and doesn't merely motion but instead asks Hound for verification of the heat-signature before she closes in and wills the lock open. 

What spills out is a young lady. 

"You're from Onderon," she breathes when she takes off the gag from the face of the young woman. "You're a royal." 

The woman smiles at her, bright teeth in a beautifully brown face and rich, thick, dark locks that she knows would defy gravity if uncombed after getting wet. Just like Steela's had. 

"You're Ahsoka Tano," the young woman smiles. "I am so pleased to meet you. Though less with these circumstances. Please tell me you have found my fiancé yet."

Fiancé.

A second hostage? 

"Finding you has been more will of the Force, milady. The entire Senate is unaware of your situation." 

Something panicky passes over the face of the young woman and she is quick to turn to Ahsoka. 

"You must find him! Lux said-" 

"Lux," she hears herself repeat almost automatically. "Lux Bonteri is your fiancé." 

Oh, she thinks drily, the _irony._

… 

"We don't know how they became aware of our plight, but before we could properly draft an address to the Senate, the Trade Federation was already present and ready to bargain." 

The Lady's name is Bell - no last name as hearing that was not permitted to outsiders who did not reside on Onderon. And she is a sweet thing. Nothing, she can't help but think, like her _or_ Steela. [But then maybe, they'd both been very much like his mother and… a boy has to grow up at some point, doesn't he?] 

"What part of the bargain involved you bound and gagged in a glorified box on Coruscant?"

She likes Bell is the thing. She is well behaved and courteous to Hound and the men who come to take her details and 'it is no trouble at all, please, thank you for doing such good work'. She's lovely. 

And she hasn't heard even the smallest peep of Lux publicly ousting Ahsoka or even acknowledging their time together on Onderon. 

"The part where we denied their help and they saw fit to employ more convincing methods," she ventures softly. 

"And your fiancé thought he could deal with them by himself." 

Typical Lux. 

Bell catches some of the intent behind her words and it's unlucky because Ahsoka is better than that but… 

"He _has_ fought in the war, mind you. And he has a noble heart. You can't fault him for the attempt."

Like she said, sweet. And very hung up on Lux. 

… 

Ahsoka smiles the biggest, most honest grin at him when she finds him over the prone figure of four guards, covering a gobsmacked Lux Bonteri. 

She is not gentle but neither is she rough when she hauls the bound figure of Lott Dod through the half-opened door and settles him down with his kinsmen. 

Tera has already moved to untie the Senator, which is why Ahsoka takes the time to tie the rest of them up. It's a stalling tactic and she doesn't think Master Sinube is fooled in any way but he's a good friend to have and lets her take the few moments of collection before she faces the large brown eyes of Lux. 

"You went to the _Trade Federation_ for supply requests for Onderon?" 

She surprises herself with her exasperation. Lux, for his part, looks sheepish. 

"You know better," she continues. 

"Yes," he says quietly. "I thought I know better too." 

She's quiet when she pulls the rest of the restraints from him. "Better than to talk to the Senate or the Order?" 

He is a young man now, her friend. But nonetheless chastised by her words. 

"It would have felt like calling others to clean up my mess," he admits and… She can see that. This Lux is trying hard to do right what the old Lux, at the very least, hadn't even deemed worth the effort to think about. 

"... And what about the press release then? " she asks softly, already turning her body to give him a view of Bell. "Was it worth all this?" 

But Lux doesn't answer her. Doesn't hear her when Bell sails into his arms and Ahsoka swallows around the tight emotion of being so easily disregarded.

Even so, she steps away. Whatever fallout will be waiting for her in terms of press releases, she will bear it and stand tall in its face. 

… 

_THE LADY DOTH PROTEST TOO MUCH_

_Illicit Relationship_ _Is the any truth to Bonteri's claim? Read Ms Tano's answers on p. 4_

"Lux Bonteri doesn't know what he is missing with someone like you as a friend," Tera says decisively over the lifeless tabloid between them. "I never have quite the same excitement unless I'm with you." 

Something uncertain passes her face but Ahsoka breathes through it and the emotion passes into gratefulness. 

"Aren't you too old for excitement?" she winks down at him. "I remember someone once chiding Younglings for their incessant need of excitement." 

Tera smiles. "Ah but I remember a very particular Youngling who could barely even wait for the end of her own sentences to come." 

Ahsoka shrugs easily. "She also went forward before she knew the direction but that didn't always stop her." 

A good thing indeed. "Come," he motions as he starts to walk. And he swears his muscles sing youth and energy. "Our tradition has not yet run its course."

"Of course," she smiles. "Can't forget the Younglings."

"Everything we learn, we can pass on," Tera insists with the face of a sage. "It does the young ones well to learn as much as they can." 

Ahsoka is quiet for a while. 

Then: "If you're really curious, I have a small group of friends who have cornered me into telling them about my years abroad. We will meet in the room of a thousand fountains on Zhellday. The invitation is extended to you if you'd like." 

An invitation, he knows with a glowing warmth in his chest, extended to those the young woman considers friends. 

"It will be my pleasure, young friend." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so:
> 
>   * The Trade Federation never meant to cut off Dodd rather than extort Onderon on Coruscant itself by decoying the congregation that guarded Bell in the Box as a rival representative 
>   * The Debacle was basically an additional red-herring created by Lott Dodd probably because he's clever but also resentful and targeted Ahsoka with a fake-interview from Lux, wherein he disclosed the nature of their 'relationship' while they were still both on opposing sides in the war 
>   * I'm not certain if Lux ever really clarifies on this point even in the future; maybe to Bell but the public...? Not certain 
>   * And yes, the CSF-guard that's with them on the docks is one of Fox's 
> Let me know if something else is unclear - or if you may have suggestions for pairings or prompts or writing tips in general :) 



	12. [M] Pleased as Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love it when someone insults me. That means that I don't have to be nice anymore." with Cody/Rex [and a side of unidentified Zabrak]

\---

It was meant to be an in-and-out. A quick information retrieval that could go easier if two men who looked roughly like brothers and roughly like they had an illicit relationship were to pop up in an unsanctioned bar that served a peculiar kind of customer. Brothers in a relationship looking for a third between them. Old gentlemen of renown who had a Faible for the younger flesh. Young ladies with a pinch too much of anger in their veins, ready to take it out on someone else.

It’s just one of these things that the Chancellor throws at them without really thinking and then steepling his hands in expectant wait for results. 

That and they owed Fox for that last time he bailed their boys out after a bad night at 79s.

“It was _not_ supposed to be a bar brawl!” he yowls over the din. Ducks a hand and grabs a foot, upends the attacker right into a table and punches. 

The only good thing that’s come from this is the relative safety of the brawl even when someone pulls a blaster. It’s a cute thing.

Cody looks offended when he slaps it out of the palm of the male before he raises both hands and claps them over the sensitive audio receptors of the Twi. Rex winces and pulls his elbow back into the nose of a Bothan before he turns and digs his thumb into a pressure point. 

Stars and he’d _always_ wondered why they’d been educated to fight sentients. _Finally_ that good Kaminoan education paid off. 

That is, of course, when he sees them. 

He doesn’t know why they haven’t joined the fray yet but there is a likelihood that they’re waiting for the rabble to tire them out. Which is a good tactic but bad for them because clones are engineered from the get-go to last longer than a regular human and Cody and Rex are not just any kind of clones. They’ve had their mettle tested in numerous battles until now and Rex _knows_ his limits as intimately as he knows the swoop of Cody’s scar over his eye. 

The Zabrak is almost peacefully ensconced in a corner at the far back of the bar, bottle of clear liquid and one glass in front of them, bright-silver eyes following every move they make. 

Rex sort of _wants_ that one to join in. He’s cataloguing their moves. 

“ _Yoka to Bantha poodoo_ ,” something hisses from his right and behind and the silver eyes don’t even slide to give anything away, but Rex turns just enough to capture the glint of steel in his peripheral vision and ducks out of the Dug’s swipe just in time. 

It hisses, grunts, goes again. 

They’re quick and, frankly, not that shabby. Likely untrained but experienced either by the way of their life or the fighting pits because they turn deftly on their two hands, twirling a circle as they simultaneously climb the bar to be at Rex’ eye-level and if they land a hit, it will be ugly. 

“ _E chu ta_ ,” the being growls when Rex manages to wrangle the knife out of its hands and before he can compute, it has launched from the bar and ontop of Rex. Sturdy spans of hands clamp down on his throat and land him in the wet litter of the bar’s ground. 

Another knife appears in the hand of the Dug and he grins something gutteral and ugly but before he can bring it down Rex hauls his feet and kicks him in the _shebs_ with all the strength his core can lend. 

It’s enough to make the Dug stagger and growl but by the time he’s caught his balance, he has also given Rex more room to work with leg-wise and the Dug may be heavy but he’s not big enough to be a problem when Rex’ foot finds leverage between the arms and heaves the Dug off him. 

It _squeaks_.

Rex takes a deep breath for the first time in roughly ten seconds and launches the Dug over the bar. If he likes it so much, let’s see if he still does now. 

But there is no sound of impact and he’s quick to roll himself over and out of the way of a descending boot of another attacker. Grabs the forgotten Dug blade and sinks it into the knee of a sentient whose face he doesn’t even register before he turns them around again with a punch. 

“ _Sleemooo!_ ” 

The Dug is back. Cannonballs himself at Rex’ back and he stumbles into one of Cody’s opponents, takes them off balance just enough for Cody to deal the last blow and then - suddenly - it’s only the Dug and Rex. 

He tries to grab for the menace but it _bites_ so he squishes it between him and the next wall. Reaches back and finds the beard-tacles. _Pulls_. Almost just to hear the squeak again but crushes it against the wall again. 

“ _Tooska chai mani_ ,” it wheezes menacingly and there’s another glint - and for fek’s sake how many blades does this one even _carry_ , but Cody plucks the thing right out of his palm and Rex doesn’t have the time to thank him properly before he throws his back against the wall one more time and the Dug, finally, goes limp. 

“Fek me what a nuisance,” he groans. Accepts the tug of his _vod_ into his own orbit and towards his lips and-- _Oh_ , what a balm to receive right after a fight. 

Cody is warm, sweaty and reeks of a melange of the drinks spilt on him, the copper tang of blood and the warm scent of his own body. There’s a hint of perfume on him that he had donned almost reluctantly when Hound had pressed it on him with the argument that no good citizen of Coruscant went out without something cloying to their skin. 

“You fight good,” he smiles when they part and Rex snorts into the Keldabe Kiss he awards his _vod_ with. 

“Those were your first words to me,” he grins. Stands up straight and quickly checks his _vod_ for deeper injuries. His legs look like shit but that is to be expected, Cody had always been a kicker. 

“Can’t believe that worked.” 

The words don’t come from Cody rather than the hunkering mass of Zabrak who has now stolen behind the bar, bottle of clear liquid still in front of them, solitary glass now joined by two more. He uncorks the bottle and fills the empty ones. Doesn’t gesture. Doesn’t expect. 

They go nevertheless. 

“Quite a show you put on there,” the Zabrak hums deeply. A vibration that Rex feels even from his position. “Haven’t had that in a while. Policy would have me tell you what you’re looking for.” 

He opts to down the shot instead of thinking about that particular house policy. They’re not anywhere near civilised population and it goes to figure that these parts are libertine enough to make their own rules. House Policies included. 

Cody pulls a picture from his jacket. It’s torn and useless, but he’s still wearing it. The Zabrak’s fingers are huge, Rex realizes, clawed and thick and he could probably have wrapped his hand around Rex’ throat and be done with it before he’d haved noticed. 

“She went missing roughly a week ago on a screwed ransom run,” Rex rasps, feeling the indents of his throat. “Family paid. All parties showed. Except there was one more who dove in and took the girl again. No ransom. No reason.” 

The Zabrak hums. “Gangfeud?” 

“Likely,” Rex shrugs. Fox had been a bit vague about the details but for all intents and purposes that is what it looked like. “Got a tip that she may have been here two days ago. Not quite in her right mind if you get what I mean. Came here to ask.” 

Silver eyes sweep to take in the carnage around them: the laid out bodies, the blood, the broken bottles and glasses, the upended tables. 

“Quite a way of asking you have,” the Zabrak intones, but doesn’t comment further rather than focus on the picture. 

“I can’t say for certain,” he finally admits. “There’s a lot of customers coming in and out. Some of them rent their pleasure here, some of them bring it along and rent the room only. Those who bring it know to hide it.” 

Naturally. 

The Zabrak ducks, fiddles for a padd and places it between them to call up a security log. Most faces are blurry - a side-effect for being a paying member of this club, as far as they had been informed, but there is one face in particular--

“But this could potentially have been her.” 

She’s paler than on the picture. Whether she’d been painted that way or chemically induced to look like that is anyone’s guess. It’s even possible, he thinks, that this isn’t who they are looking for at all, but it’s a lead. 

“She went with anyone in particular?” 

The Zabrak pours them another round. Shrugs. “Couldn’t say. But they had a very _Ryl_ feeling to them. But maybe it's just the clothing.” 

Something about the wording clicks with Rex and he’s already downed his shot or otherwise he’d reach for the glass again. “...It’s not, by chance, a big feeling. A bit like having the blues?” 

The silver eyes shine bright like stars in the somber lighting of the destroyed bar and what Rex had, before, thought was a hum is actually a deep, rumbling purr that accompanies the small, almost secretly pleased, upturn of lips on the face of the Zabrak. 

“Why yes, that’s exactly what it is.” 

Cody groans. Guttural and displeased. “I _hate_ that _sleemo._ ” 

The Zabrak turns, curious now. “You understand Huttese?” 

Rex shrugs. “Gotta know the language of insults, don’t ya?” 

A pensive look passes him then. Still rumbling. Still purring. Still _pleased_. “You understood what the Dug said.” 

Every word. But Rex only salutes with his glass and downs it. 

“You did not kill him. But you understood… Did it not bother you?” 

Cody snorts and Rex coughs a dark laugh: “Stars no I _love_ it when they insult me. Means I don't have to hold back anymore.” 

The silver eyes take in the left-over of their visit to his bar and the pleased purr reaches a lower octave. Almost sub-vocal now. A sensation of vibration in the air rather than a sound. If Rex weren’t used to Ahsoka, he would almost not know it. 

“I see.” 

[“He was flirting with you,” Cody says later, when they’ve hit the streets, arms around each others necks and undercover clothes torn beyond repair. Rex snorts. “Cody, I think he was flirting with the situation. But I wouldn’t have said no if he’d invited both of us to bed.” His _vod_ snorts, presses their heads together quickly. “Thanks for thinking of me, _vod_ .” Rex thinks his _vod_ is ridiculous. Not like they’ve been together for years. “Anytime, _vod_.”]


	13. [T] Timey Wimey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jedi as time travellers" with CodyWan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit short, but I do hope you enjoy it nevertheless

\---

“No.”

The moan tears him out of his morning routine. It's an odd sound in their small home. Especially considering it's not a sound of joyful denial. No, he thinks as he pads out of the small bath-room to take a look at his _riduur_ at their table, making a face at the PADD. He's almost tempted to tell him that it might get stuck like that.

“ _Cyare_?”

Obi-Wan turns to look at him and by the Stars he is beautiful even in the old, knitted jumper he’s taken with him from one of their missions and it only strikes Cody now how ludicrous he must look with half of his face still half hidden in shaving foam. But Obi-Wan only has a smile for him, unconvincing as it may be.

“We have to go get Anakin,” he says drily. Before he lowers his eyes to steer into his mug and pulls another face. “I haven't even finished my tea.”

Cody snorts. Comes closer to look at their summons.

The Council doesn't have a lot by the way of intel to give them aside from An'ika's original mission and the obvious information that he hasn't been calling in and missed his return mark.

It's so like Anakin to get into trouble.

Cody sighs. “I thought we'd agreed on letting him learn to mop up his faults by himself?”

Obi-Wan grumbles into the remnants of his tea. “And I'm still for it. The Council is just of differing opinion.”

Kriff the council.

Obi-Wan moans again, curls into a mishap shape of a ball and rests his Forehead against the hot body of his cup. “We can't just go to the 1960s, Cody. Our suits are all wrong. We just came from 2000. And the Council won't even give us time to restock! We can't just--”

Well… “Obi-Wan,” he soothes with a devil's grin, “whatever it is that An'ika has managed to get himself into this time, I guarantee you it'll be big enough to divert from our inappropriate attire.”

Obi-Wan moans again but doesn't argue.

Cody checks for the mission-details. They'll be going with Plo and Wolffe, which will be nice. When it’s all over. When they have all the posturing behind them and another successful mission under their belt and can go enjoy a pint on their ridiculous _jetiise_ and their time-travelling-shenanigans.

Didn't Wolffe say something about a mission to steal a Renaissance painting?

Cody smiles. At least they won't be the most inappropriately dressed, he thinks. Obi-Wan might appreciate that. Maybe Cody could incite him to flirt with Wolffe a bit. He does so enjoy the visible confusion of his _vod_ when his _riduur_ lay it on thick.

“Now,” he straightens and is promptly reminded of his half-shaved beard, “isn't this time sensitive?”

Obi-Wan grumbles once more. “Our mark is ready in an hour. You think we can manage?”

They've managed worse on shorter notice but he doesn't say that. Instead, he nods.

“Let's go save your _ad_ and give Wolffe a heart attack to go with his grumpy, old, man persona.”

[Karking Skywalker caught himself a space-time anomaly by the name of Ahsoka Tano/Ashla/Fulcrum/Daughter. It's anyone's guess who she is at any given moment but she is always genial and Cody can't help but agree that this, at the very least, is a good reason to wait for backup rather than bring her straight to the Temple Order of Time. That and Rex, of course, had already imprinted.]

  
  
  



	14. [T] Wibbly Wobbly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Barbed Wire, a scrap of blue fabric, howling winds" and Obi-Wan & Ahsoka (!! same 'verse as Chapter 13 !!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1k hits? :3

\---

He has only ever heard about time-space-anomalies. Read about them in obscure books or even scrolls. Data that had always been mythical.

Nothing had warned him of this.

No one, he muses, has been in the presence of one for long enough to actually Form a bond. One that keeps him tethered to the young woman even as reality breaks around her. Reforms in tiny fractals that look like glitches on her skin where she forms and reforms. Becomes and unbecomes in the blink of an eye.

“Ahsoka,” he tries but he's not surprised when he doesn't reach exactly.

She can see him but-

Oh what he himself wouldn't give to be anywhere else but here in his timeline. Where Anakin has rendered their youngest ones apart with the war he'd brought. With the curse he's laid on their lands with his own hold on time and had brought it again and again and again and-

He reaches for her through the howling winds of spiralling powers, pulling at him, pushing him away. His skin shreds as if reaching through barbed wire, such is the spike of her own powers. The shockingly sudden inability to keep herself contained when she had always so impressed them with her sure grasp of herself.

Blue eyes roll back and Obi-Wan cries out through his tears when he makes the last effort to grab hold of her. Burns his hand but _holds_ because he's lost _everyone_ already and he's not losing Ahsoka too.

“Ahsoka!”

Her eyes are white and he's not even certain she can hear him through the rush of winds. White glows against the shadows of darkness over their heads, the rolling clouds of death and manipulation tugged by the winds and Obi-Wan catches hold of her battle-skirt. The hard plating of almost _beskar_ that the men had scrounged together money for in order to gift it to her for her ten-years-with-us-iversary. It's sturdy and she's loved it and he can't believe they're gone and-

No.

He swallows. Grips tighter.

The fractals on her skin expand. Blips of other times and places, futures and pasts appear at the corner of her elbow, over her shoulder, at knee-height. Obi-Wan doesn't pay them any attention.

He's never held a time-space-anomaly close in the throes of panic.

“Ahsoka!”

He's managed to wrap himself around her in spite of the expanding storm he is certain she is _conjuring_ but it's almost too late and the shrill cry of something like a warning siren howls over the planes of Mustafar. He realizes only too late that it's no siren.

Blackness surrounds them.

Abrupt and terrible and he wishes he knew what was going on but his body feels like it's falling and the high, weeping sound of the time-fractals becoming and unbecoming around them steals his breath and deafens him.

Obi-Wan doesn't know what to do, so he does the only thing he can do. He focuses on his teachings.

Focus, he chides himself. Thinks of home, of the _Temple_.

And the image comes and goes too quickly for him to see but he understands even from the briefest glimpse - _knows_ \- that it is compromised. Destroyed. Desecrated. Filled with the dead bodies of-

He focuses again. _Cody_ , he thinks. Because Cody has always pointed him in the right direction when he hadn't been certain but-

Another image. Cody shooting at his brothers. Those pleading for him to wake up. Cody next to a black clad menace of a thing, tall, dark, caped and imposing. A threat even with a breathing device. Cody facing death with the same blank look he'd faced Obi-Wan with when he'd pulled his blaster on him.

Breath stops in his throat. Almost drowns him in his sorrow.

 _Rex_ , he growls into the darkness, part-desperate, part-vindictive but-

A man old before his time. Hard lines around his bearded mouth and soft eyes that cry without tears. A battle cry that rallies men and women who haven't seen twenty years yet. A victory. _Peace._

A hiccup in the darkness. A wail of distress.

 _Ahsoka,_ he thinks then.

But there are too many variables. Too much that could happen, has happened, is yet to happen.

He redirects. _Padme_. _Bail. Feemor._

Children surge into the darkness. Bright and hopeful and like a moth-call, Ahsoka materializes next to him in almost shy fractals.

She looks like she has gained ten years.

“When we get out of here, you'll have gained twenty,” she warns. Warm and steady but no less pained and injured in her soul.

She knows something he doesn't. Not yet but-

“We're going for the twins.”

“You're going for Luke,” she corrects. “I have a man to find and a Rebellion to found.”

“And if you do it right?”

Hope shimmers between them. A soft tendril, new like a seedling. Obi-Wan exhales shakily with clarity.

“An end to the darkness.”

“A new age,” Ahsoka agrees when she bends forward and ties her blue scarf around his neck. Hers. The only thing she'd brought with her when Anakin had found her so many years ago. A lifetime, it feels like.

“May we meet again, my friend.”

Obi-Wan pulls her in for perhaps a last embrace. Ahsoka comes willingly.

“May Time be on your side-”

“-and Space forever hold you.”

When he blinks, he's in the middle of a desert, dressed in the drapes of Bedouins much as the folk he'd first found Anakin among. He sighs. Deserts are always so unfavourable to people of his complexion. [But the teas of the desert-wandering folk is always good.]

 _K'oyacyi,_ he thinks before he sets into motion.

  
  
  



	15. [T] Magic in the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's not cooking, that's sorcery" with Wolffe/Rex and Ahsoka & Jon (because I pulled 2 pairings and didn't realize until it was too late...)

\---

“That's not cooking,” Wolffe spits with his usual temper after he’s had a taste of the sauce, “that's sorcery.”

It is but they're trying hard to hide that. And the fact that they _are_ actually sorcerers. Or a Sorcerer and a wayward Apprentice. Granted this is more difficult to do with Obi-Wan within their circle of acquaintances, but the red-head had made the compelling argument about hiding in plain sight and until now it had worked like a charm thrice-blessed under the full moon so…

Thankfully, however, Rex is always good for arguing with Wolffe. Even now.

“It's the same principle,” the blond shoots back.

Not that he’d know – technically – but Ahsoka has been around him for long enough to be aware that he is an avid fan of arguing philosophical points of views for the sake of arguing. It’s his fashion of getting to know people, where Wolffe will just fight you to see what kind of mettle you’re made of.

“No it's _not_!” Wolffe snaps back, swings the spoon at Rex and Ahsoka settles on the unused kitchen island with a glass of Pinot to watch the procedure. Jon’s eyes glint at her through the argument and she feels a tinkling sort of pleased when she registers his faint _approval-ease-familiarity_ in their Bond.

Rex blocks the spoon with his hand, “Yes it is!” He ducks one of Wolffe’s swats and dances out of reach just as Jon has to step back and between them to fetch a handful of pre-chopped green onions. The blond gesticulates: “Measure ingredient, pour into vessel, stir gently.”

Wolffe lets out a truly aggravated growl as he lunges for Rex again and only gets more frustrated when the other evades him with an efficient side-step.

“Sorcery has a _magical_ component to it you uncultured lout!” he argues and Ahsoka tilts her head in agreement as she swerves her glass-holding hand towards Wolffe as if to give him the point. Rex has seen it and as he evades Wolffe, manages to poke her in the side as if in admonishment. She doesn’t retaliate – yet.

“ _I'm_ the uncultured lout?” They’ve done half a round of the kitchen-island and Ahsoka has to twist a bit to keep them in her sight. As deeply immersed as they are in their play-fight, it wouldn’t do for them to stumble into something more difficult to explain while Jon isn’t looking. Rex slaps at the hand that comes for him and Wolffe, to her delight, shakes the hand with a moue as if that had actually _hurt_. “Who managed to kark up the Pub-Quiz about Sy Snootles the last time?”

“You're both uncultured louts,” she intercepts. There is a hint of actual hurt that sparks in Wolffe’s chest and she doesn’t like it there. Jon will call her out for interfering in a discussion that the two of them _need_ to have, but she’d prefer it if they were to have a more solid understanding both of themselves as a couple as well as each other before then. “Considering none of you have _any_ affinity for wine.”

Thankfully Wolffe takes the bait. Leaves off Rex and makes an affected pffbt-noise as he waves off. “ _Wine_ , has _nothing_ to do with my culture,” he gives back. “Or culture in general. Now if you were talking about _tihaar_ , that'd be different--”

And Ahsoka smiles because if there is something that Wolffe can talk about for hours it’s his culture and their alcohols. So she decides to wake that particular sleeping wolf and grins smugly over the rim of her glass: “--because hard liquor is your culture?”

Rex’ eyes glint brightly in the beam of light that comes through the herb-window, dust-mote-light catching on the brightness of his hair that is the only give-away Wolffe can have when he closes in to hook his chin over the other’s shoulder. “Well it has _history_ at the very least.”

It’s as much of an apology as he will give publicly, Ahsoka knows and lets the slight towards the history of wine – which is _long_ , and _detailed_ and _rich_ – slide. Her interference has done what she’s hoped it would and that’s all she really does want to focus on.

Well, that and a bit of fun. “You know they say that the Stewjoni invented it?” she grins when she brings it up and even Jon huffs from behind her at the blatant dig. Obi-Wan would probably be both appalled at her for taking such an obvious rhetoric out while also being mildly proud of her for sowing a bit more chaos. These ambiguous things had always been right up his alley.

Wolffe’s face twists into something offended. “ _Osik!_ Antilles what _have_ you been teaching her?”

Behind her, Jon sighs a great air that she knows is as much theatre as the two in front of her. “I'm afraid that's all Obi-Wan,” he drawls as if truly sorry.

As if he isn’t thriving on the banter and friendship and understanding and _love_ that hangs in the air like garlands decorating the streets for a festival. Rex, too, must sense it and sometimes it strikes her just how _attentive_ he can actually be.

“That's what you said about her launching out of windows too,” he counters slyly, “and I know for a fact--”

Jon turns, pot in the right hand, spoon in the left and Ahsoka sputters, twists to catch the looks of both Jon and the devil who just ratted her out and her mouth opens and closes uselessly at the first two times before finally-- “That was one time!”

Wolffe shrugs, lifts his hand to make a so-so motion, “Three. But it's okay, I have at least two of Jon's escapades caught on camera, so at least you're sneakier than him.”

Ahsoka will take it for now even if Jon heaves a put-upon sigh and affects a low grumble that disguises the quick stretch of his fingers and the brief, staticky feeling of _magic_ in the air. “...You could not, perchance, be convinced to hand those over, could you?”

Rex is peering over Jon’s shoulder, curious about the taste of the sauce himself, and once again a tad too attentive. At Jon’s question, he gives the man an innocent look: “Those what?”

[“What’s the happy accident project people ask you about the most even if it has never, actually, needed any work of you?” _You two,_ she wants to say. _People are head over heels for how much you two love each other – they all come for the love-spell I used on the two of you – but I never needed to lift a single finger._ “If I tell you that, Cody will come and kill me and I like my life.” Curiously enough, both Rex and Wolffe can accept that.]


	16. [E] Having Kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vikings & Kittens with Rex/Ahsoka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a little E thing for you. It's not perfect but I realized that I'm never going to get better if I don't _write_ it :)

**\---**

It's a political union in a time of great upheaval and her Finder had poured over the Secrets of the Other World to be able to tell her just _what_ would be waiting for her. Her husband has been born under an Ash Tree, whereas she herself had been one of the few to see the first light under the barren branches of an Elder Tree. A strong union, certainly, her Finder had insisted. Unconventional and perhaps rocky at first but strong nevertheless.

And they need strength now.

The world has been thrust into darkness. Women fear walking the woods. Men howl with anger rather than with their animal brethren. Children shake in their bassinets rather than sleep.

It's been years of hunger, pain and fighting. Samhain had come at least twice since Ahsoka has first picked up the sword her father had made for her. Since she has ridden at his side into a battle and come out alive. Baptized a warrior by the dark blood of her enemies.

She remembers the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, and the clink of his other hand when they fought – when he proved to her that even those with a lacking limb could still lay her out in the dirt. She remembers his loud, booming voice so at odds with the slender frame of his body and the big toothy smile of joy when he found her alive. When he heaved her up on his shoulders and showed her off to his men and women, showed them a new warrior to go with the handful of others that had survived.

It is always better to celebrate life and survival than to rage at the injustices of death on a battlefield. At least for a time. Because Death is inevitable, and accepting loss is a constant lesson and duty. Ahsoka knows this. And has learned this.

But no more direly than the day when she's had to grieve her father.

Half a tree-circle's worth has passed since then and their forces are dwindling. The war keeps dragging on unnaturally and winter... Winter is never easy, but harder still when farms have burnt down and when crops have gone to feed armies before they feed the rest of the people.

When Obi-Wan had come with the marriage proposal, she'd known that it was their last resort. And so she'd taken it. Given up her status as the leader of her people and agreed to wed for their good and for their continued existence.

The day has come, now, when she has to fulfil her promise to her people and her husband and Ahsoka...

...knows nothing of him.

She knows of his clan – though any who have not heard of the _Mando'ade_ must not have been from these lands in the first place. _Mand'alor_ Jango – Chieftain of the Mandalorians – is akin to a fairytale, a warning to those who wrong his children, and a hero to some of those who have heard of his exploits.

The least she knows that she will be marrying his second son. Not as prestigious, perhaps, as the first son, but nonetheless a good alliance. Solid enough for the survival of her people. At this point, that is the most important part.

And she knows what will be expected of her. Knows why the women have scrubbed her skin until even the darkness of it had been red and raw and _clean_. Knows why they have sighed over the smooth skin of her calves where riding has rubbed away any hair, and she's been grateful for it too – when honey and resin had come into play and she'd learned a new kind of pain. She knows why the old crone has brought her under her roof for the week and has given her bitter brews to drink.

Ahsoka knows what is expected. And she cannot help but think that maybe... she is daunted by the aspect.

Which means that she has taken to look at it akin to a battle. Because even if she is daunted, even if maybe (perhaps, in the most secret and darkest nook of herself) she is scared of what _could_ happen (painangeruseage) she will not shame her people. Nor herself. If she cries tonight, it won't be out of anything else but love.

...

She's been the first to be hounded up into their room by the men, lunging for her good-naturedly, but not making to tear her dress as she's feared. She doesn't know what has prompted them to forgo that particular part of the tradition, but she's grateful.

Seated on the edge of the bed as she is, furs soft under her, she has a full view of her husband, when he sneaks into the door and closes it quietly. As if in secret. There is a near-affronted call from downstairs that lets her know that her husband has, somehow, managed to slip the curious fingers of her friends.

Not that she hasn't asked them to spare him the embarrassment, but _image_ , she supposes.

Her husband – and he really is now – is a beautiful man.

Wind-tan skin and yellow hair – brighter even than the corn when the sun shone on it – with a beautiful pair of eyes that reminded her of the amber they sometimes found in the airy earth of their woods or the rocky grounds on the foot of their mountains. There are scars on his neck. One that she has seen Obi-Wan carry as well. (A scar that spoke of unwilling servitude. And the escape from there.)

His cheeks are rough with the first hints of a beard just as bright as his hair and she cannot help but smile at the way the Gods _must_ have chosen right. For her silvery-white hair on her dark skin and the brightness of his hair when all his brothers were dark.

When he finally turns to find his eyes on her, he startles a bit, body locking up, unexpectant of her and something _squeaks_ around him – small and protesting and she watches him when he apologetically relaxes his right hand from where it had balled up into the crook of his arm.

He's carrying something.

"It's uh... It's a tradition in our clan," he says quietly, accent heavy on his tongue, when he reveals the grey-white feline, barely any bigger than the palm of his hand, "to gift our spouses with cats."

Curious and attracted by the small thing in the palm of his hand with the wide eyes and the softest looking fur she has seen on a cat yet. A long-haired blend of greys and whites that will grow into browns and whites come spring until the little thing will blend in stupendously with its surroundings. Her fingers still just before she can touch it and her eyes lift to ask to permission but--

He looks so soft.

The edges around his eyes are mellow and the hard-earned bulk around his shoulders relaxes and his thin lips ease from their near-perpetual frown. When her fingers follow the back-line of the cat, learning the true softness of her for the first time, he looks like he has lost ten years.

"They're good hunters," she supplies softly. And cannot help but wonder what to think about these first few words they've exchanged as a married couple – wonders if they would set something into stone. 

His hand is careful when it reaches for hers. Hesitant but warm and only when she allows it does he hold a bit tighter. Just enough to transfer the little thing to her palm and let her cradle it, feeling the weight of the little thing and the almost child-like warmth of it.

" _Vor'e_ ," she says quietly – stiltedly. She doesn't know much of his language, may not be expected to know much of it but something in her clamours for it. _Wants_ to learn the tongue. Wants to bring some of his own home and culture into hers.

Especially if her husband will flush whenever she speaks it. Just as he does now, eyes wide and pleased and a warm, agreeing hum in his chest as he traces a stray lock of hair out of her eyes like a kiss with fingers. " _Bagedet'ye, ner riduur'ika_."

And he's close enough for her to simply rock to the tips of her toes and press a small – the smallest – kiss to his lips, taking their first kiss as a married couple for herself. He's briefly rigid. Wondering maybe where the kiss came from but he has been so perfectly stooped over that she hasn't been able to miss the chance and even when he straightens his back, he is careful to keep their lips touching. Just touching. Like something slow and hesitant.

 _Shy_ , she realizes when she feels the soft tremor in his hands.

They sit on their bed to play with the kitten, originally. It feels like an innocent enough thing to do – like something she has done with her friends a thousand times before and-- she would like for them to be friends, too, she thinks. They are married for reasons, but they could still be friends.

Her husband towers over her – a head higher than she is, warm like a furnace from over her shoulder when he bends closer to rub his large finger over the furry tummy of the kitten on its back. It's a playful thing, but soon asleep with its youth and uncomplaining of the little spot of furs it has been given on the left lower corner of the bed.

It's only then that... her husband and her are in their bed. Without distraction and only with the two of them and when it becomes obvious that the small thing has drifted off, the caressing hands and fingers of her husband slowly start to draw circles over her own skin on the back of her hands.

His hands shiver over her arms from behind and beside her. Shy and exploratory. Warm on her skin and leaving a trail of raised hairs in their wake. It's only the tips of his fingers, too, as if uncertain whether or not she would be accepting of his advances.

But Ahsoka leans into him, lines her back up with his front, leeches off his heat and sighs as she leans her forehead into his temple. Brushes a kiss over his skin.

His lips come to kiss her shoulders. A dry peck of lips only, still trying to see what is alright when he cannot seem to find the words for it. His fingers trail her silhouette. The parts of her that have been left bare by the shift. His forehead rests on the clothed slope of her shoulder, eyes closed as if he was trying to hide and she can feel his breath push-pulling heat onto her skin and the scruff of his short beard scratches pleasantly against her skin. A sort of titillating, strange sensation that makes her want more. 

Her own fingers are drawing circles onto the cap of his knee where she can reach it from her position, dipping into the soft tissue of the pants he has been given. Light and breezy as her shift and wholly inappropriate for the winter that is coming but-- it is their wedding night. And no clothing is technically appropriate.

His hands stutter in time with her breath when he draws them across their collarbones, hides his hot breath in her neck and doesn't touch her breasts just _so_ as he reaches for the bow low on her throat. The first of four, keeping her shift together over her torso.

He is careful when he tugs at it, fingers dancing over the sides of her neck and the new skin he uncovers, and she doesn't know what she should do in a position that is so vulnerable. One that she would never permit on a battlefield or even in a spar. An exposed neck is _death_. But Ahsoka tilts her hand into the shaking, calloused fingers of her husband and wills the warmth of his skin into hers.

Her body reclines deeper into his shoulder, soaks up his warmth and she wraps her mind around the moment until it suddenly wraps around a lesson Obi-Wan has tried to teach her for so long. Unsuccessful until now. Sometimes, he would say, vulnerability can be a strength. And Ahsoka had never understood how showing your belly and risking her undoing could be a strength but-- She tilts her head back under the tentative fingers of her husband. Bares and stretches her throat under his soft explorations and he doesn't _see_ her gesture so much as he feels it when, suddenly, his rough fingers can cup even the swallow of her tongue and a hard, almost wounded, breath wedges from his lips as his other arm winds around her midsection and pulls her closer – pulls her into him.

A broad palm settles over her throat – molds over the form as if protecting it and something about it weaves a spell into her skin and her mind and she is the one to unpluck the second bow of her shift. Wordlessly, but trusting.

 _"Ka'ra_ ," he swears into her neck, presses down just once – not a threat, just a weight – before his lips seal over the pulse under her ear. Less hesitant, less dry and all the more surprising, when her own hand comes up to the back of his head to hold him there. The hand on her throat slips, retreats from the arc to a spot she hasn't considered but feels almost more vulnerable when he draws teasing fingertips over the swell of her throat and the fluttering pulse just above the broken line of her clavicle where he twists an almost figure-eight into her skin. 

"Oh…" the breath stutters out of her unwillingly and a wave of awareness rushes through her. A tingle of expectation where else his touch would feel like that. 

The arm around her middle - the hot band of sweet restriction - splays its hand, fingers digging into the stretching crease of her hip. 

Another deep hum of her husband. A rumble in his chest that she feels vibrating against her shoulders. 

His fingers glide the new expanse of her skin. Hop the last bit. Tug at the third bow. 

If she were any more well endowed, the cloth would split wide enough to reveal her. But she's a slight thing; proportionate enough to have that be true in terms of her breasts as well. 

And he's careful with her. Playful. Patient. Even though she knows he wouldn't have to be any of that. A marriage for a year would still hold if he weren't. If he were to simply do and be done with it but--

It's his hesitation that makes her reach for the fourth bow. Makes her take his hand in hers - dry and rough and larger than hers - and guide it into the front split of her shift until she learns the rough texture of his skin against her breast. 

She's not even a handful for him but his long fingers vee over her nipples and the sensation is enough to lose herself in. Her breath extends her chest into his hold, gives him the chance to switch his grip and her own fingers claw into his upper thigh when he plucks her, curiously, between thumb and forefinger and she arches into the touch with a soft cry. 

Her body flows to his ministrations. Shoulders digging into his chest to heave closer to his touch as her hips rotate back to balance and-

He's stiff behind her. Hot and hard and alluring and curious and she wants to know-

His mouth latches onto the underside of her chin when he plucks her breasts again. A zing of heat following his gesture. A rut of hips as he goes forth to meet the backwards roll of her own hips. The arm over her middle holds her for a moment but lets her complete the motion and roll away from him and the wetness of his mouth. 

" _Mesh'la cyar'ika_ ," he whispers into the skin of her neck.

He fans the flame of an ember she hasn't been aware she's been carrying.

And Ahsoka doesn't know, exactly,what he's saying but she hums sweetly and rolls back against him once more, wants to feel more of his desire. Curious and drunk on the way he groans into her neck. Tugs her closer. Ruts for the duration of a hard exhale, before she grabs for the hand holding her and-

She's only ever done this for herself. But he's been so attentive until now. So patient. She'd like for her husband to know how to please her. Would like a husband only if he is interested in pleasing her. 

So she takes his hand to slip it under her shift and onto the skin of her legs. Her thighs. And the hand on her breast spreads. Slips to hold her to him when he guesses her intent and it doesn't occur to her until the shivery gust of an exhale he near-hitches into her shoulder when she reaches her goal that maybe he's holding on to her. Rather than attempt to hold her down. 

Ahsoka is sodden with her want for him. Warm and welcoming and his hands feel so much warmer than hers still. Bigger and stronger and _promising_. With the first pass of his fingers over the folds of her hidden place, she trills in pleasure. Holds on to his wrist to keep him there. Encourage his motions. The graze of his fingers. He knows almost instinctively to brush circles over the bud of her pleasure, dipping into the wetness of her folds to ease the passing and tease her more. When a first finger slips into the wet sleeve of herself, Ahsoka is so beside herself she nearly bucks him like a wild horse. 

" _K'uur, mesh'la, k'uur_ ," he croons softly into her ear, kissing her cheek as if to soothe her while spreading - and how did he get them into such a position - her knees with the strong muscle of his thighs even as he retreats his finger but she doesn’t want that either and when he sinks it back, she sings him a high whimper of praise. 

The stubble of his beard burns her neck, but she likes the sensation. Focuses on it even as she teaches him the rhythm of her pleasure, the cadence of pressure she likes. Learns how rough his voice gets when he whispers things to her she only half comprehends, words that sound like praise when she breaks into pieces by his touch in a way she has only ever managed to do by herself and when she turns – it takes her a second because... looking into his eyes is almost like breaking a spell.

His face is flushed and his eyes are bright, almost feverish, with want that dries her own throat and they’re both still mostly dressed ludicrously. 

Which is the first thing she remedies. 

Her thighs are slick and maybe he can see the evidence of her desire on her legs when she pulls the shift off completely, silver hair falling past the swell of her breasts and her husband stares with some unparalleled emotion, before his own fingers scrabble to relieve himself off his shirt. 

There is _blue_ under his skin. Bright and cobalt, twisting in languid lines over his arms, circling his wrists, fanning his shoulders in increasingly intricate patterns and even down his chest. It’s the symbol of his clan - she realizes when she looks more closely. The symbol his father wears over his heart and his brother wears on his pauldron and her husband has inked it under his skin like a dare to anyone who’d get to see him so vulnerably. 

A new sort of spell starts brewing between them when she puts her fingers to the scar on his chest. The one that should have meant his death. A bright, white star of scar-tissue in the middle of his chest, thick and roping when she passes her thumb over it and she can’t believe she might never have gotten to know him. 

Maybe it’s the emotion that makes her bold. Or the warm tingle she has to thank him for, but as she leans forward to spread her palm on his skin and her lips on his, she is determined to learn the taste of him. His mouth. The texture of his tongue. 

He’s wet and warm and held-back when he first encounters her. Uncertain maybe but-- Unpracticed more like. 

His skin is warm against hers where they meet, the roughness of his hands on her neck, his fingers in her hair, hands on her shoulders, on her lower back, pulling--

She hums loudly into their kiss, hips rolling to lengthen the contact of their cores. Hers wet and his hard and she wants to know-- 

“Please,” she asks quietly. Eyes closed and lips barely apart, her forehead pressed against his and their noses touching. Every breath is air they share and her nails have to dig almost uncomfortably into his skin. “Please, my husband,” she asks again as she rolls her hips. Hopes she won’t have to speak her desire fully because she doesn’t know if she’d find the words now but she doesn’t have to because as bashful as he is about it, he puts her fingers to the strings of his pants and lets her help him bare himself to her as she is to him. 

The room has darkened into mystical secrecy when they are finally to each other as the day they have been born. Honest and laid bare like babes. 

The last of the sun’s golden orange is vanishing beyond the horizon, a last bright strip of light separating the line of the mountains from the indigo-blue of the night when Ahsoka’s husband - “Rex,” he says with another bashful smile and a kiss to her nose, “My name is Rex, my wife” - pulls her back on top of his thighs and seats her on him as she would sit on her mount. 

“I would like you like this,” he offers. Rocks but doesn’t breach her until she, herself, decides to accept their position and rocks his hardness against her. He doesn’t tell her to move with him. Doesn’t try to steer her and it occurs to her that her husband - that Rex - may be as new to this part of the land as she is and something about it exhilarates her, before she sinks her wet heat down over him and learns the pleasant burn and ache and stretch and then yearning of union. 

She learns the heat of his skin against hers when it’s slick with their desire for each other, too sweaty to hold, but too grounding to let go. Learns the grip of his fingers as he clutches at her, embraces her until they are one silhouette dancing in the dark and he moves in and out of her in a pace that she sets. Learns to sway them into pleasure. Learns her pleasure anew. Learns his sounds and his breaths mingling with hers.

And he is still careful. Still… patient. Moves with her but never races her. Never hurries her along even when he groans and strains and bucks and seems to _want_ but he _doesn’t_ and the sounds he barely keeps in his throat… _Oh_ , the sounds he hides in her neck, presses into her skin, are sweet and desperate, wanting and not-having, and so vulnerable and _open_ . And something hitches in her when she bends to kiss him, rolls her hips just _so_ and something _snags_ , beautifully and thrillingly pleasant so she repeats it. 

Lets the thrill of it build. Chases the rush of warmth and tingling until the sensation of their union shivers her into the planes of _Other_ and she sings and trills against his lips. Her entire body feels like a strummed lute, feels like it's echoing an ethereal sound and it's into this motion that the hotness of him spills into her. That his song joins hers, broken and _sweet_ and vulnerable and soft and _young_ and she cries one tear. _One_. That leaks like a drop of water from an over-full chalice and she whispers her prayers into the wetness before it lands on his forehead as they clutch at each other. Rolling out the waves of their pleasure like horses slowing their gallop. Until he slips out of her, cold and finished, and his broad hands sweep her back in a soothing rhythm. 

His eyes are the most beautiful amber she has ever seen encased in the head of a man and when she bends to kiss him this time it's easier. As if they had known each other for years and the kiss feels like the sealing of the spell they had started when they had first touched.

[Ahsoka is re-shaped by the war that only truly ends many, many years later when she has wandered the Other Realm and has returned to find her loyal husband still waiting for her. When she has learned _majiks_ that had not been meant for the living in so many ages but were needed now. When The Sun who has brought balance has won and she _sings_ in the arms of Rex once more.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have barely been coherent yesterday and I feel like I need to ask for pardon but... I'm human and I want to be allowed to be fallible. So. I didn't write yesterday because I barely had the brain capacity for being properly awake. 
> 
> The idea about the cat came with the small intel that Vikings tended to gift kittens to spouses - as an aide for householding, since they're good pest-hunters - and I love the idea. And yes I know that Vikings and Celts are/were different ethnicities, but i thought they'd be close enough in this case to mesh it up a little. And I read somewhere that Mando Culture was based on Celtic culture (? correct me if I'm wrong) so I thought... why not have it be _their_ tradition too.


	17. [M] Judicious Use

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you like it when I touch you like that?" with Codexsoka (Cody/Rex/Ahsoka)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to keep this chapter under 1000 but in the meantime there's like 2 chapters that entirely got away from me. Good news is that they're giving me fodder for more works so... :)

\---

The ground underneath them is uncharacteristically soft for a tent-floor and it takes a few moments of getting used to. Because while they may all be used to roughing it, it’s Ahsoka who made the nest and she's always unhappy with the morning-strain in their shoulders and necks that comes from spending a night on less forgiving ground. 

She’s between them now. Not a separation but an addition, in training-shorts and an old sleeping shirt that’s seen better days. Rex thinks he can see where one of the sleeves is singed. He hums when she reaches for the jaw of the man in front of her in a carefully telegraphed motion - stops just before touching. 

"Is it okay if I touch you?" 

Cody's eyes are fixed on her with the same intensity he's seen him reserve for targets and Rex doesn't know what else to make of the situation - so he defuses it. Runs his tongue over the fleshy side of her lek and tears a distracted hiss-purr sound out of her as her hips twitch. An aborted roll that doesn't reach Cody, but drives itself against his hardness in almost-retaliation. 

When he looks up, Cody's large hand swallows the dainty appendage of the female between them and his lips learn the texture of her knuckles. 

His eyes glint. "Can you do that again?" 

Rex doesn't give Ahsoka the chance to explain. That there's a handful of spots on her body that will get her to purr. He goes straight for her jugular - literally. Buries his teeth in the fine flesh under her chin and rides the full-body twitch that accompanies the cry of surprise quickly devolving into a deep, throaty purr. 

Cody hums appreciatively. Ahsoka's hand held gently to the beat of his heart. Her fingers dig for hold, but don't break his skin. "That's pretty, _kar'ta_ ," his _vod_ muses. 

Ahsoka gulps for breath. Slides her hand into his neck to hold and wraps her other palm around Rex' wrist. Rolls her hips between them. 

"I'll show you pretty," she swears in a raspy tone. And then there's a feeling of warmth, a giddy sensation that stops just short of being a tickle, swathing him and rolling over his skin like a wave of gold and he doesn't have to guess long to come to the realization that--

"Is this considered _judicious_ use?" he gasps into the not-but-there Touch against him. Makes to clutch at her but Cody's hands are already at her hips, span and hold and Rex won't be surprised if he'll bruise her. [Or that she'll like it.] 

Ahsoka rolls her shoulders into his chest, lekku squeezed between them when his hand reaches up to cup her ribs. Thumbs just shy of where his hands want to be. She laughs breathlessly when he slips his fingers under her cropped top just as Cody lunges for a kiss and the wave-like sensation of touch turns into the sweetest, most delicious burn against his skin. 

"The most judicious," she assures him. Stretches her neck when he groans into the skin and rolls his hips against hers and the touch.

"D'you like that?" she asks their third. Always so careful. 

Rex is used to her shenanigans. In and off the field. Rolls with it even in the berth they share. Cody… trembles and just barely doesn't gasp in the hold Ahsoka has on him. The sensation against his skin doesn't abate but it grows more languid. 

His _vod_ hums. Deep but non-committal and Ahsoka smiles into the kiss he presses against her throat. Rex flexes his arms to mock a squeeze around the lek that's trapped between her back and his front and Ahsoka's hips jolt sharply. 

"'s that a yes or a no, love?" she digs in, with less breath, just as Cody's fingers find his and trail them between her legs, where her shorts are sodden and Rex groans into her neck when she cries at the sudden presence of their hands. 

"'s a yes," Cody smirks drunkenly into the skin of her breast where he licks at the nipple Rex is fingering until she is squirming between them and the golden wave of touch returns with something that would be vengeance if it weren't so sweet and he shatters into the melodious song of the pleased Tog between them. 

[He's so thankful clones have a short refractory period because fek if their _je'tii_ doesn't have the stamina of a Commando on a cocktail.] 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thing I have learned now: writing every day is not the same as updating every day :)


	18. [T] Sky full of Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sky Whales" with Comet, Boost, Sinker & Ahsoka

\---

She’s heard them of course. 

Even before they’ve seen them, she has felt - as had the rest of the Jedi - the presence of a sentient aside from the _vod’e_ who're chartering them through space on the safest route they could possibly take. 

But it’s their _song_ that’s drawn her attention to them first, has had her perk up in her cot, focusing herself into an almost meditative trance as she tried to pick up more clearly the sounds from what are apparently Sky Whales. 

It’s an important distinction to make. Star Whales versus Sky Whales. 

She won’t lie (to herself) and not confess that she hasn’t, for the barest second, held the hope that maybe there would, indeed, be Star Whales around here. But she realizes in hindsight that this is unlikely. There are thousands of stories among the Jedi about the old race of sentiments able to carry whole nations on their backs. Attracted to the calls of those in need there have been while epics about nations dying or becoming on the backs of such beasts as they swam through the endless was of space on search for a new place to settle. 

When she'd been little she'd looked them up because-- They'd been taught that there is always a kernel of truth to stories. And it's true that they have, at the very least, existed at some point. Or at least the point of their once existence is no longer reason for debate or contention among academics and scholars. 

But these are not Star Whales. 

"They're in-orbit, _vod'ika_ ," Boost had shrugged. "Can't be a star-anything if it's not among stars." 

For all that they're excited about the new development, Ahsoka has yet to see any of the new sentients. 

Post-Wasskah sees her mostly confined to the medbay or, at the least, the insides of Master Plo's Venator. She's tried to argue that it wasn't like she'd gotten lost _on purpose_ on Felucia but it had gotten her nowhere. Except into assuring the trio she'd been last assigned to work with that while they should be making sure their superiors _are_ in fact right behind them, she is not angry. 

But-- she _is_ cooped up. 

After Wasskah and its always-overhung sky, the mournful cries of the terrible birds there and the constant threat of discovery and death, she doesn't necessarily deal well with being contained in a single room. 

Plo has bid her meditate on this and she _has_. _Ori'haat_. 

She knows where her fear comes from. It's just a process accepting it and putting it behind her. And she doesn't necessarily appreciate being kept confined for it. 

Which is why it's something of a surprise when, in the middle of the night-cycle, an unusual sound in the medbay wakes her up. 

Sinker's eyes glint in the low light of the medbay - oddly golden and predatory. Strangely familiar and she relaxes almost immediately from where she'd tensed for an escape. 

She can't see the mimicry on his face but she feels his apologetic cringe in the Force. 

"Sinker?" 

"Come on then. Outsides wait for no _vod_."

...

It's beautiful outside. 

Long stretches of airid soil interspersed with the gentle forms of strange greenery cropping up in small groups and giving way to the nocturnal glow of phosphorescent flora. 

She can hear the scuttle of small live on the pebbles that the sand and the wind must have smoothed down and giddily tastes the salty air that reminds her of the spray of an ocean wave. 

The skies shine ethereally with source-less light and amid the swathes of silver clouds dive the most beautiful beasts she has ever seen. 

"Woah," she breathes quietly even as Sinker puts her on the speeder in front of him, flanked by Comet and Boost as they take off into the night to follow the song of the giant Sky Whales. 

They're surprisingly feathery. That which would be flipper is wing and that which would be tail splits higher up, is more maneuverable to help steer - can fan out into something much broader and thicker. And as their marine cousins glide through waters, they gently surf through the clouded skies. 

It doesn’t pass her notice that their speeders are pointed to wherever it is that they’re going. 

...

She doesn't know how long they've sat to watch the spectacle in front and overhead of them. The slow spirals that the Whales dance into the clouds and their long, echoing songs that vibrate soothingly through what feels is her entire being. 

(This, she thinks when she feels something her-but-not respond, is what Master Yoda must mean.)

The Whales have noticed them early on. Have shied away to higher spheres first before it has become obvious that the strange new sentients were only her to be spectators. 

They startled again when it turned out that these sentients, too, had ways of flying and had then joyfully included Boost into their dance as he swerved around them on his _sen'tra_. 

He's sweaty now, a sheen of perspiration coating his face in the low light of the night and Ahsoka can't remember when she's last seen a _vod_ smile so brightly. 

(Hardcase, she remembers with a pang in her chest, when he'd blown up Cody's late-meal and right into his face. Fives had laughed so hard he'd fallen off the bench right there in the middle of the mess.) 

Idly she sits up into a meditative seat and has barely even reached into the Force when a zing of an idea pings off her and her eyes shoot open to find the one it came from. 

A large, gentle face with a spark of _something_ in their deep, dark eyes. 

“Boys," she smiles as she stands. "I got a splendid idea.”

She barely has to reach for the Force to feed her accord of the idea and the large beast sings a note that fills her up with Light from the tips of her montrals down to the itty-bittiest of her toes. 

" _Vod'ika…_ " Comet may have guessed her intent and she knows that they're trying to make up for Felucia, for their 'failing' to watch out for her but--

"It's gonna be _great_ ," she assures them just as the big Whale nearly beaches on the ground. 

They're close enough that she will be able to mount them with a decisive jump, which is exactly what she does and--

Stars, she's high up. 

Her three protectors are still on the ground though and even from here she can see Boost's slack face. Sinker is probably praying to some deity that Wolffe will never find out about this lest they _die_ from his retribution. 

Only Comet tilts his head. 

...

"Has anyone seen The Unholy Trinity?!"

Ahsoka's reintroduction to the land of the living is to the dulcet tones of an irate _vod_ , trying to locate the three men behind her. She barely has to turn to hear the rustle of neoprene against plaststeel when the three sit up from where they’d huddled just a pace behind her. 

Underneath her, her new friend makes an inquiring sound as to the slight panic of the Commander on the ground. 

Ah, she breathes. Wolffe is worried. Likely hasn't heard about her missing from the medbay yet or he’d be livid. But just as he is about to call down from her perch, an almost inhumane screech accosts her montrals and she can't believe that one of the _vod'e_ would sound like that. 

"And _why the kark_ is there _a kriffing SKY WHALE_ parking its _floaty shebs_ right above our _pfazzing camp_!?”

...

He damn near swallows his words right back down when the blue-white montrals of his Favourite _vod'ika_ peek out from behind the silhouette of the giant beast. Wolffe has nothing left in him than to yell into the emptiness of his buy’ce in light of her huge eyes while Comet, Boost and Sinker nearly fall off the Sky beast (and it’s _laughing_ at him, he can see it in its eyes!) shaking so hard with laughter. 

[It’s the first time she hears O-Mer laugh and even Jinx’ lekku are twitching in almost shy amusement.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (AD Whale Song: Ahsoka has never meditated (or slept) so deeply than when in the near vicinity of them. Jinx and O-Mer too. The boys notice. They record all the sounds they can to gift them. Wolffe stays up one entire night following them around and recording - what she gets is a twelve-standard-hours ‘Recording for sleep’-copy with only night-time sounds and the song of the sky-whales with the occasional crunch of a boot and not a single blaster sound in it. She knows Jedi shouldn’t have possessions but it’s one of the most prized things she doesn’t have. Wolffe, of course, denies all.)


	19. [T] She-Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She is a Wolf" with Fives/Echo/Ahsoka

\---

In the autumn morning sun, the air is crisp on his arms - wind soft as it caresses his exposed skin like a gentle wake up call. 

His son exhales shakily in his embrace and Jango pulls him closer for a moment before they separate. An unspoken moment passes between them as they regard each other and then Fives turns. Hand on his arm in a request Jango thinks he shouldn't feel like needing to make. 

Echo is propped up on the gurney where the paramedics are carefully unwrapping Fives' bandage on his head and the leg. Jango squeezes his son's shoulders. He's done a good job - especially considering the circumstances. 

His hand travels to Echo, fingers carefully steering clear of the medics as he puts it down and isn't surprised when his sons' hands intertwine. 

The twins had always been different - a unit within themselves and inseparable even before this trip. Linked - empathically, mentally, spiritually - in a way that was almost _Other_ but just not. Just this side of human. 

Echo's eyes focus on something ahead of him and it's only when Jango tries to see what that he realizes that Fives' eyes, too, are stuck in that direction. 

It's hard to miss it once he looks. 

Startling blue eyes, clear like a mountain lake amidst Siena fur decorated with white markings. 

But it’s only for a moment that he sees it. Only for a breath, before they turn and vanish in the thicket. 

Three days after his boys had gotten lost in the unnatural storm that had hit them on a _Hunt_ , neither of his sons should look as well kept as they do. There are no hungry shivers or complaints of their stomachs and while they are trained for survival in the most dire circumstances, Jango knows that the wildlife has been sparse in these regions. Something _Other_ had roamed here. Angry enough to scare away nature but… Nobody seems to have told his sons. 

…

“Tell me about the friend you found.” 

Echo is _high_ from the drugs and Jango knows it's unfair to ambush them like this when Fives is still _tired_ and his second half is out of it and when their link is the way it is but he needs to know if there's something _else_ he'll have to prepare for. Something _Other_.

Neither of his boys can lie for shit but he doesn't think that excuses Echo's affronted grunt as he raises his pointer finger from the white cloth of the hospital bedding: 

“... _Firstly_ , _she_ found _us_ and _secondly_ , the first time I saw her I thought we were going to _die_.” 

…

_Jetiise_ are Wild Things. _Other_ in a way that sets his teeth on edge like biting into metal but this one--

He'd be lying if he didn't admit that he has a soft spot for this one that's probably not so much a case of 'chink in the armour' rather than 'mile wide'. It's a thing of vehemence and truth that surprises him every time he sees the other. But he knows better than to say it out loud. 

"You know her?" 

The red-head next to him hums into his cup, sipping on his tea as if it weren't scaldingly hot. 

"She's vetted," the Other says softly. "Came out okay." 

Jango sighs and accepts the answer. No thanks will pass his lips. But the blue-sparkling eyes of his counterpart seem to have caught the sentiment either way. 

"Has she been worrying you?" 

Jango's not certain. 

"It just feels a bit too much like coincidence," he finally admits. "Having her appear so suddenly after we got rid of the _beast_." 

The Other hums again, hand coming to his beard and Jango bites back a sigh. What he wouldn't give to know the burn of it against his neck. To feel the edge of those pointed canines break skin and-- He takes another deep breath and glowers. 

He won't say it but he hates the fucking Charms. [With this one he can never be certain. Not even of himself and he _hates it_.] 

… 

Ahsoka Tano appears on the couch in his living room one day, sipping on a cup of Echo's favorite Elderberry-Cinnamon brew as she antagonizes the twins in some video game from underneath Fives' self-crocheted blanket. 

She's a curious sort, always up for shenanigans if only to quench her desire for knowledge - yet sometimes with a passion and desperation that is worrying. As if needing to prove something to herself or others that Jango can't parse. 

He doesn't exactly know how but his boys seem to adopt her before he has even had a word in the matter.

When Fives and Echo are out, Rex will sit down with her either for philosophical discussions that leave his head spinning or an equally hearty discussion on mechanical engineering.

Cody _tussles_ with her (they don't call it that; it's always some sort of ball game but… it's a tussle, he's old enough to know play-fighting) and she's so painfully patient with Hardcase and Dogma respectively that it almost _aches._

At one point he even finds her almost violently nuzzling Wolffe into the rest and recuperation he needs, turning a deaf ear to his complaints and insults while she seems to make herself heavy and unwieldy on his back. 

But however good of a rapport she has with the rest of his sons, the twins are her favourites. 

She spends days with Echo in the garage, cleaning and bleaching bones of some skeleton Fives and her had dragged back to the house from one of their various excursions. When Echo's migraines spike up, neither she nor Fives will budge from his side and when she learns what Fives looks like in the middle of a panic attack, he finds her brooding over Rex' and Cody's collection of related books for weeks until she's the one to push noise canceling headphones at him before the 4th. 

She's an odd creature too. 

Loves to sleep outside even when it's _freezing_ (he's an outdoorsy kind himself and he wouldn't say that lightly) and loves to tear into meat with the Gusto of an animal. She has unbelievably sharp canines to show for it too. And she's _touchy_ \- seeks bodily contact whenever she can, whether it be the broad brush of her side against one of the twins' backs, or her back against their shins during movies, piggyback rides that his boys are only too happy to oblige her with and, on one occasion, her nose deeply buried in Fives' throat and then Echo's when he'd found them huddled together at Yule in the living room. 

Boba had exhaled the most long-suffering sigh he'd likely ever heard from a ten-year old and had promptly turned around again. "I don't wanna know," he'd heard his youngest complain. And then like a mantra: "I don't wanna know, I don't wanna know, I don't wanna. Nope, nope, nope, nope."

Ahsoka had noogied him the next morning and had happily let the retaliation devolve into a bodily quabble that she enjoyed much more visibly than his youngest. Fives had still been half-asleep on Echo's shoulder and Echo had brewed two cups of Elderberry-Cinnamon tea to go with Fives' coffee. 

And Jango can't believe that it takes him all half of a year until he finds Ahsoka lounging over the entwined legs of his sleeping twins on their mattress with deep, blue, lake-clear eyes finding his even in the darkness of the night that he finally connects the dots. She hasn't, he thinks, even bothered to hide and he can't believe himself. 

["I'm getting old," he'd complain to Obi-Wan that evening. "I'm getting slow and I can't believe you wouldn't tell me." Obi-Wan would take a long look at him in the golden light of the Pub, eyes glinting and Charms quiet for once. "I could help you with that," he'd offer then. Quiet. Sincere. But Jango would still be too set in their ways. "For what price?" And he'd bare his teeth, blunt and human and no less a threat. Obi-Wan won't rise for it. Would uncross his arms instead and open his palms for him on the table. "Your truth. And a chance at living it."] 

Ahsoka's eyes glint at him the next morning before she tilts her head - bares her throat - and looks away from the splotch of gold against his neck that looks like a mishap paint splatter.

… 

When she asks for permission to take his boys up the mountains for a two-day trip just after the snows have thawed, the gold is permanent and beautifully bright against the darkness of his skin. 

"No dead animals," he says mock-seriously. 

Ahsoka, for her part, looks absolutely delighted:"Echo said only bones and Fives promised to make something of them." 

Jango loves his sons, but he can't believe them sometimes.


	20. [M] On the Confidentiality of Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boba/Ahsoka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, Bonus-chapter I suppose (100 Kudos? <3) from a story I'm trying to write [but I'm not certain this part will be in it]

\---

> _Ahsoka will not tell him until long, long, long later - that this had been her first kiss. That she’d compared it to others who’d come after. That Senator bred mouths had not been able to keep up. Nor Temple-raised ones._

  
  


"Tell us a secret," Goran cajoles light-hearted as he gestures towards them. "Tell us a secret even he doesn't know." 

Boba scoffs at the very idea, hands peacefully squeezing her shoulders as he quirks a sardonic eyebrow at the older man. The very idea is ludicrous. Nothing she says could be news to him. Ahsoka's hands on his own feel like an agreement. 

"We've been living out of each other's pockets for years, Goran. What makes you think I keep secrets from him?" 

It's Lestra who smiles and shakes her head. "It's not about keeping secrets. But we've had a life before men, haven't we Ahso'ika?" 

From between his knees Ahsoka raises her short glass of _tihaar_ to the other woman and those who murmur in agreement, saluting before downs it. She pats his knee.

"I've had a life before you," she apologizes and Boba snorts a bit, winding their fingers together. 

"Mine was longer," he shoots back unrepentant and grins against the chuckles and headshakes he garners. 

"Come on, 'So' ika," Goran coaxes again, "Tell us a secret." 

And something - maybe the _tihaar_ \- must be riding her when she bends forward and puts her glass down on the hard-packed earth in front of her. The fire illuminates her from the front, brightens her skin until she looks as if burning. One with the flame that warms them. 

"We had a sort of tradition where I come from in regards to secrets," she starts in a conspiratorial voice. "A game if you will. We called it _Two truths and a lie._ Up to you to figure out which is which." 

A caveat, Boba notices. Not a direct answer but neither a denial of their ways. She wants to take part in the story telling. Wants to learn. Wants to spite her background that might as well evict them from this place because-- well… _jetii._

This, if anything, warms him more than the fire and the _tihaar_. The will to partake. To learn his culture instead of judging it. To be honest with the people that come closest to the ones his father might have called _his_ once. Such as is possible for her as a former military officer of unfavorable allegiance with no will to destroy the lightness of the air of this evening. 

"We'll play!" Lestra smiles gap-toothed, "We haven't had a good game in _some_ time!” 

“Alright,” Jha agrees peacably but leans forward to propose his own raising of the stakes: “But if we manage to suss out the lie, you have to down an entire _buy’ce_ of _netra gal_.” 

Ahsoka considers this. Boba doesn't know if she really should. Given the information she might have and the truths she _might_ share. “If you manage to suss it out in a standard hour,” she negotiates. “I’m not waiting on you all night and I am _certainly_ not going to have you jump on me without notice some time in the next few weeks with the answer.” 

“Well I’d have to get it right the first time too, wouldn’t I?” he placates easily. 

“I’m not going to give you the right answer by eliminating all wrong ones. That’s cheating. Isn’t it?” 

Anywhere on Mandalore, that argument would bring an easy counter-argument of not fighting fair if the goal was to _win_ but Concordia is _different_ in that regard and it’s not the first time that it strikes Boba just how thankful he is that Ahsoka’s machinations have, in the end, landed them here.

Ahsoka wiggles between his knees. Leans back just enough to cushion her thick head-tail comfortably against him. The pads of his fingers itch to draw against her skin and dance a trail to the sides of her neck. Only to lay there. 

Naturally he keeps his impulses in check. They are in company. And she is Ahsoka. They are who they are. And this is not always part of who they are. 

If she senses his thoughts, Ahsoka doesn't show it. Instead she hums, accepting the refill of _tihaar_ and the glass that Goran pushes into her hands. 

"So," she downs the shot, "here's my two truths and one lie."

Lestra, in her seat, inclines her body forward, intent to catch every word across the fire as Ahsoka raises her right index finger. 

"Boba was my first kiss," she is briefly interrupted by a quick volley of loud whistles and denying boos. Her next finger raises and the calamity dies down. He thinks he can hear her smile when she continues: "I have _one_ older brother," no one interrupts this time. Silent, calculating gazes meet hers. 

Her ring-finger joins her other two raised fingers: "And when I was very young I first learned to hunt by emulating Tooka-Cats in the gardens." 

Silence stretches for a short while around the fire as their companions weigh the tone of honesty that falls from her lips against the likelihood of her statements. 

"We're allowed to ask questions right?" Jha finally asks to clarify. 

"A few, yes."

"Right," Lestra nods and squints her eyes, "How old were you when Boba allegedly had your first kiss?" 

"Fifteen," Ahsoka answers and Boba… shrugs when they look at him for verification. He's not technically part of the game but--

"That's roughly right I think. Level 1312?" 

Ahsoka hums in agreement but Lestra is already shaking her head. "No way," she snorts. "You were already a fighter at fifteen. There's absolutely no way you've never been caught up in a post-battle rush until then. I say some unsuspecting schmuck got there first and wasn't even aware of it." 

Gev strokes his beard next to Lestra. "Maybe that _one_ older brother she mentioned?" 

Jha weighs his head in contemplation. "Wouldn't be the first time an _ori'vod_ were to be bestowed that honor," he muses and even Boba watches in quiet when Ahsoka's lekku make a soft movement of instinct. 

Not a tell of honesty so much as it is one of fond emotions. Boba doesn't check his fingers this time when they itch and softly rubs the chafed pads of his fingers into her shoulder. 

Lestra's smile is soft. "Good brother?" she asks gently. And he can't see Ahsoka's smile but he can hear it in her voice. 

"The best. Taught me how to kick the ass of a man twice my size before he took me on my first Pub-Crawl." 

Jha snorts and even the rest of the assembled Protectors mumble something approving. 

"Is he the one who got your first kiss?" 

For a second Ahsoka doesn't respond. Then-- "I mean… When I said _kiss_ I meant on the lips but… He is the first I kissed on the cheek… And he taught me how to kiss someone in _buy'ce_." 

Loud approval crests among the Protectors. If only because they've seen Boba and Ahsoka pull close after a particularly engaging chase to share their fierce bare-toothed grins in a Keldabe Kiss that could almost be _mirshmure'cya_ if they were any less careful. 

Gev raises his glass of _tihaar_ to her. "Good choice in brother," he commends her to the accompanying nods of the rest as they down their shots. "But if he taught you _kov'nyn_ then there's no way Boba had your lips on him first." 

It's a thing Ahsoka and him are only yet learning, he thinks. Gestures that had come natural to an army of clones held different meaning to those whose culture it came from. Like the _kov'nyn_ \- basically an extension of an embrace to the clones, it has a much more profound meaning to _Mando'ade_. Especially when exchanged between two warriors of different families. 

Ahsoka shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Goran, because he can stir poodoo with the best of them, gives Boba and her a thorough stare - as if only now noticing their positioning. 

"Who's to say Boba isn't also the _ori'vod_ who taught her?"

Lestra cackles, "A double feint! I like it!" 

It's him this time whom Ahsoka shares the shot with, if only because it seems like the only appropriate answer to the snickering _di'kut'e_ around them. 

Even Boba shakes his head. 

"And what of those Tookas?" Jha asks. "You said you learned from Garden-Tookas?" 

Ahsoka shrugs. "I said I first learned to hunt from tookas in the gardens." 

Gev already clicks his tongue and Boba knows it's because of the near-precise repetition of wording Ahsoka used. She's a bad liar, though, he knows this. All things considered, she's doing very well. 

"What gardens? " Lestra asks because even the perfect wording could be a feint. Ahsoka can, if necessary, fight dirty. "Where were they?" 

It could be a dangerous question, he knows. Any lie Ahsoka spins might be recognized as an untruth. Yet any truth she confesses may shorten their stay. Ahsoka snuggles into him. 

"Shili," she answers with the warm note of remembrance. "We had the plains, mind you, but they are no good for keeping fruits and veg. That's what the gardens are for." 

"And for Younglings," Gev pushes gently. 

"Only the curious ones who can't stay still for very long," Ahsoka admits and it's such a soft thing. Full of truth and contrition and fondness. Boba rubs a circle into her shoulder with his thumb. 

"You had a lot of tookas?" 

"The wild ones are everywhere," Ahsoka rebuffs a Protector because it's true. Let a tooka feed and breed and they would multiply on the matter of years. 

"Last two questions," Ahsoka challenges with a cocky tone. 

"What did the tooka look like that you learned from the most?" Goran fires off immediately. 

Ahsoka stalls. "Brown-- ish?" 

The hesitation is a good thing, Boba thinks. If this is the lie, then she has done well by concealing it with her hesitation. She shrugs. 

Lestra smirks. "What's the name of your ori'vod, Ahso'ika?" 

Jha is already handing her the _netra'gal_ and Ahsoka sighs with a pout. " _Shonar_." 

Gev smirks. "'e a _tat_?" 

Ahsoka pulls a small sip from the tankard before she raises it to the stars. "He was." 

\---

"I thought the temple didn’t allow attachments," Boba asks her later, when they have retreated to the _Slave I_ , quiet in their wind-down routine despite the earlier excitement. 

Ahsoka gives him the look of a person, who has argued this point often enough to know their words by route now: "And yet - Jedi are sentient beings. With all the needs and emotional pitfalls that entails."

It's just an argument _they_ haven't had yet. Not in full length and he doesn't know if he will ever be truly ready to have it in its entirety. With, as she said, all that it entails. 

But he knows that if she has had family, then she would not be able to remain in contact. Not really. Not considering the age she has been brought to the Temple, according to what he knows of the age constraints. 

"But then your brother--" 

Ahsoka sits down on the cot a little more careful than he is used to from her, thigh touching his like a warm line of familiarity. A heat he knows he will wrap himself around during the night because this is what he has grown used to. Ahsoka. In his arms. 

She swallows gingerly, speaks quietly when she does and doesn't look at him. "You may not claim them, Boba," she starts softly, "but the ones that have served with me are brothers. If not by shared blood then by that which we have spilt."

Considering the people that are currently working hard to integrate them into their fold and their social constructs, he knows that she speaks truth. 

And he may not like them all, truly. Knows he can't have them as brothers - has been taught not to see them as such and never to claim them - but he also knows that by his doing so, the ones in her battalion have been left for her to claim. 

"...That would make you in possession of way more than _one_ brother," is all he says, realizing that, now, there are no lies left that Ahsoka could have divulged to the Protectors. 

Ahsoka nods. "Not wrong."

He furrows his brow when he thinks about it. Thinks about what she has admitted to and the circumstances of their stay. Considers her sheer inability to lie and his steadfast belief that she has, indeed, told them truths and--

"You learned from Tookas on Shili," he decides. Because that one had been easy enough. 

"Which leaves the implication that I have been your first kiss."

Ahsoka hums and something in Boba's chest locks up like a log catching on a stone in the flood of a river. 

"But that’s not--" 

Ahsoka is surprisingly lackadaisical and matter-of-fact about it, when she twists in her seat to cross her feet under her and turns to face him in the narrow width of their cot. 

"I’ve had three kisses in my life," she recites, lifting three fingers and ignoring the disbelief he's sure he must radiate in her Force. She wiggles her ring-finger, "One by a woman who would later blow up half of my home and frame me for both the action as well as the lives lost in consequence of it." 

She wiggles her middle finger: "One by a Separatist who became a Senator later. And one," she wiggles her forefinger as if threatening to point it at him, "by an arrogant _beroya_ who still has problems with the words ‘Thank you’. And let me assure you that none of the other two could compare to you."

Boba is quiet. 

Tries, maybe unsuccessfully, to work through the strange emotions that settle in him with the new possession of that knowledge but he can't quite reach an end to his ever-twisting thoughts. At least not alone, and so, when they have laid down and she is trying to get comfortable on a folded poncho that they both know she's going to exchange for the flesh of his upper arm later this night, he turns to her with his hands folded on his chest. 

"Only three kisses?" 

Ahsoka snorts. "That's what stuck with you," she giggles. 

  
  


["I've kissed you much more often than just thrice," he pouts in the morning. Ahsoka, languid and sleepy against him, huffs a warm puff of air against the scruff of his jaw as she stretches the soothing, sleep-warm length of her body against his in a way he'd love many repeats of. "Boba, until I was sixteen I was lucky you only kissed me once and didn't get close enough to kiss me another time but with a blaster."] 

  
  



	21. [T] How come you never go there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An arm slung around B's neck in an almost headlock. But really they're lost in thought either way and it's a good guidance." with Shaak/Colt

\---

He’s waiting for her in the long hall-way to the Auditorium Maximum as he does most Mondays.

It doesn’t always work out the way they want it to, but most of the time it’s not so hard to time his study-periods just _right_. Just so he can be in the under-ground hallway five minutes before her last lecture is out. Especially because Colt can’t think of a better way to finish his own day than to wait up for her; slip into the space at her left shoulder and meander home at her side.

It is, he has to admit to himself, one of the best things about his days just _seeing_ her.

Either in the morning when he is awkwardly shuffling towards the bathroom and get rid of the more embarrassing aspects of bodily morning functions whereas she is already on her second cup of tea, bending over her work at the table they share in the room. Or in the evening when either of them wait up for the other to share their way home.

It’s always a sort of privilege to be the one walking next to her.

He knows the looks she gets for the way she moves - the sheer grace she exudes with nothing more than her long limbs and her deep eyes. But he likes even more the depths that go into her words. The way she will look for the perfectly fitting one even when a more commonly used word is right there for the taking - but would cheapen her opinion. He knows that he has her to thank for a lot of things.

Not, lastly, for being his sounding board when he’d started to waffle about going to uni and getting an academic degree.

He doesn’t know how many hours in which she could have done actual work had been given up in favour of working through his issues with him. From financial to emotional and further from there, she had always listened. Had always done her best.

And when she hadn’t been able to listen, she’d done him the favour of telling him.

That had been their first month of knowing each other.

He could not possibly have known what would happen to him - to them - when she’d found him again at a party and offered to put in a good word for him at the Community Housing Project when he’d come out with the confession that he had already enrolled in courses for International Development.

“My name’s Shaak,” she’d said on his first day of moving in. Sitting primly on the other bed in the large room, smiling with teeth that looked sharp in the corners. “I’ve been told I stand up way too early in the morning.”

And even then something in his chest had given. Had made way to softness and warmth and he’d squashed it - ruthless and convinced it was just an ill-advised case of hero-worship and gratefulness that he wanted to express physically. Which was a bad idea.

“Hello,” he’d replied instead, smile splitting his face, “my name is Colt. I’ve been told I snore like a saw-mill.”

Their room is one of the bigger ones. Designed to allow for as much privacy as they could have sharing a room in a Community Housing Project that was still very much trying to grow into its baby-shoes. But they have a large shelf separating the space between their beds - blocking their view from each other and a table they could work at next to each other and a bathroom they had to share.

And it had been good. It _is_ good.

“Colt!”

He smiles when he sees her. Bright hair piled up as usual into the neatest two buns he’s ever seen on a woman closing in on thirty and her smile competing with the shine of the lamps in the hallway. She falls over him in a hug that he’s anticipated. She looks tired today - drawn thin and for a few moments he sinks his nose into the spot under her ear, breathes her perfume and just holds her.

For as long as she needs to.

Shaak takes a breath. Lungs widening in his grip and then exhales in a rush that molds her even closer into his form and Colt pulls just a little. Just enough.

For a while they stay like that. Eyes closed. A rock in the sea of people that wash around them while they are still. Until, as quickly as the noise had come, silence returns and the people have dispersed for the most part.

Shaak sways back to her heels in a soft, slow motion, hands drawing warmth from around his back to his shoulders. He feels like she’s painted him.

“I need new folders,” she informs him. “I got way too much in the way of loose paper--”

“--and you abhor the idea of creasing even the least significant one.”

Shaak huffs but she doesn’t contradict him and something in Colt’s chest _squeezes_ because _Stars_ , there’s only so many people he gets to tease and they are _all_ dear to him. Always.

“Let’s go then,” he urges her gently. Smiles when the hand he’d squeezed slips out of his grasp and the arm winds around his neck - almost as if to hold him in a head-lock but-- Like this Colt can even close his eyes and still be safe. She’d guide him nevertheless.

Colt thinks he’d walk farther _with_ her than he would alone. Thinks that if she lead he would gladly follow. Thinks that if she needed a break from leading, he would do his best to pick the path.

_Thinks_. And those are dangerous thoughts, he worries sometimes.

Their friendship is solid. It has a good foundation of listening to each other and picking apart social issues with patience and care. Of lounging on each others beds and watching _Gumball_ or any other mind-numbing cartoon with a third-fifth-fourth body somewhere over or under or between or next to them in the form of Colt’s brothers or any of the younglings in the Project. Of learning how to twist the sheer whiteness of her hair into the braids she favours. Of pinging theories and other academic annoyances off each other.

But… Colt has found himself wanting for more recently.

The past half year if he isn’t all too far off. It must have happened some time around then, he thinks. When he’d started to realize that it would be so easy to just turn his head and press his lips to her hair. That it was something he _wanted_. Among other things.

And he’s not certain if this is a good idea.

These things have a habit, after all, of destroying good friendships and… Colt would not want to lose Shaak like that. Not over something like emotions he had no control over.

Then again, the reason the two of them worked rather well with each other had always been because they had never been untrue in respect to their emotional welfare. Would he not be compromising their unconditional honesty if he were to keep this a secret from her? Wasn’t she allowed to know? To make a decision for herself?

Shaak’s arm flexes around his neck when he sighs - pulls him closer into her.

What if she didn’t feel the way he does? Could they still be friends if she knew? Would she think it odd? Would she feel threatened by him? Uncomfortable?

It was the least he’d want…

And then: who was to say that this would just go away if he didn’t say it? She is a highly empathic person - he knows this. He’s witnessed her, time and time again, decipher the emotional knots of others long before they’d even done the work of looking at themselves. He doesn’t doubt that she’d _notice_ at some point. Maybe even already _has_.

In which case her unchanged behaviour would be answer enough to an unasked question but--

He could not _actually_ be certain of this so long as he didn’t tell her. Give her, too, the chance of speaking honestly with him.

And so what if they’d need to make adjustments to have the two of them feel comfortable with each other. Shaak is a genuine character. It’s why he’s so hung up about her in the first place, isn’t it? If she wants to continue to be his friend and he does too, then there is a way that will be found.

He straightens from his position in her arm and looks up, “Shaak.”

“Hmmm?”

“I like you.”

The look she gives him is one of perplexed happiness. Slight confusion. Loveliness. He squeezes her fingers gently. “I like you too, Colt.”

He likes to hear that. He does. But her confusion doesn’t lessen and he gives her a soft smile and a squeeze to her hands with the most careful eyes he may have ever set on someone before he clarifies: “I mean that as in I may as well be in love with you.”

Shaak's smile doesn't _freeze_ per se. It's just... still. Eyes looking for something he can't quite parse. Something he can't help her with. But she is quiet and, for now, that is answer enough.

"There's no pressure, okay? I'd much rather keep you as a friend than lose you over something like this." Another squeeze to her hand. And he knows they’ll only meet up in their room again either way but-- “I’m gonna go ahead, yeah? Don’t forget that you wanted to buy new folders for your papers and I’ll see you later.”

He doesn't kiss her. Even though he’d _like_ to. And it’d be _so easy_ to press his lips to her cheek. He’s _done it before_. It wouldn’t be weird - technically. But… he’s also never told her that he maybe-loves her so… maybe it’d be a bit weird.

So he goes home.

Buys groceries.

Does the cooking.

And sits down for revisions.

[It's _late_ when he shocks up from where he'd unceremoniously fallen asleep over his notes and promptly knocks his head into the nose of someone else. Shaak huffs and it's only then that he notices her body plastered to his back. His hand moves and finds hers, linked over his chest. His headphones slip off when he raises his head – squints at the clock.

Two fourty.

She rolls her forehead in his neck. "Go to bed or come to bed," she offers and then her warmth is gone from his back. Colt swallows. Heart in his throat, squints at her blearily in the darkness. Her hair shines even now.

"Only sleep," she adds. And he can't see her blush but he assumes it's there either way.

"I snore," he warns as he stands. Clumsy and sleep-drunk. Shaak snorts.

"I know. But I'm going to stand up at five if I want to get anything done before work so I have to go to bed now. And I'd rather do it in your arms."

Colt sighs, reaches for the soft sleep pants and changes. " _Paklalat_ ," he whispers and swallows his heart again.]


	22. [T] The Gloaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Help a peaceful ghost complete its unfinished business" with Ahsoka & Bacara

+++

The sweetness of the dawn is a cool greeting against her jagged senses. The damp air in her lungs, the sweet scent of the summer flowers in her nose, the dewy warmth of the rising sun on her face and the calm gurgle of the small lake-waves against the stony shore in her ears soothe much more than just her senses.

Within her, war strains against the silence and Ahsoka breathes deeply into the pain of the fear, inhales all that is pure and untouched and healthy around her and feeds it to the smallness in her chest that feels like drowning sometimes.

“There you are!”

The wave of her strain escapes her hold. Washes and crests. Falls over her and Ahsoka has whirled up into a defensive position with her back to the water when she next comes to herself.

The sentient is small. Stooped and smiling in such a genuinely hesitant way that Ahsoka swallows around the alarm in her throat and gently adopts a less threatening pose. (She has nothing with her. If this is an ambush, she will have to beat herself up for it later.)

“Hello,” she greets the sentient back, hesitant herself and it occurs to her in the aftermath that it sounds like a question. But-- she hasn’t, truly, expected anyone here.

The place, for all its peacefulness, is deserted. It is, after all, why she’d chosen it.

“You’re Daughter-Touched,” the sentient smiles, hobbles closer and--

Now that she has a better look, she can see the slight sheen of _Otherness_ about them. The sway of the high grass around them as if they weren’t even there. Their clothing looks familiar but she cannot say for certain where she knows it from. What she does know is that this one has passed over. Has come to find her.

“ ...Can I help you?” she asks politely. She has nothing to do and maybe-- Maybe whatever they need can help her find her way back.

The _Other_ smiles, now in front of her. “Yes.”

\---

  
  


It’s only once they’re in the small berth of her tent that the signs on his shoulders catch up on her. It’s when he heaves that weary sigh she must have heard a thousand times when she offers him a cup of _shig_ and the ritualistic oblations that she realizes: “...You’re one of them.”

The _vod_ opens tired, golden eyes at her and she feels him searching for her in a way only his brothers had ever been able to. “...You didn’t seem to have a problem with them,” he replies instead. Hesitant. Wary.

He will leave, she knows, if she gives him even the littlest reason to. _Others_ are like that. Spun of prisms and hesitance. Even the slightest denial of them or your real Self will send them flittering from your conscious. Ahsoka doesn’t know why she needs this one to stay but she does.

“I don’t have a problem with… with you,” she answers at long last, still looking for the words to explain. “Or your brothers. I’m just…”

A brittle, arthritic hand reaches for the cup of _shig_ and sighs into the heat of the brew. “I was wondering why it felt so odd with you,” he finally admits. “You’re not entirely clear right now, are you?”

“No. I’m not,” she answers. Straight and to the point even if a bit mulishly as she leans back into her rucksack and pouts into her own cup of _shig_. It’s one thing to assume that the ordeal of the last years had left a mark on her but to have it thrown into her face so directly--

“Do you think you could still continue?”

Her brow furrows: “I don’t understand,” she tries. Confused. “Why does this concern you whether I can or cannot?”

Both Anakin and Obi-Wan had always told her stories of the _Others_ who would visit them. Would mostly guide them deeper into mayhem and sometimes demand more of them than they’d thought they could have given at the moment. They’d impressed upon her the necessity to _never_ give one hundred percent unless it was for something _Other_.

And yet this one - the first _Other_ to find her ever since her excommunication - smiles at her with gentle, pained eyes. “I suppose it’s a left-over from-- when I was alive,” he allows.

She tries to catch up with him. Tries to go beyond that which she has learned and has experienced. “Concern?”

The _vod_ shakes his head. “A belief,” he responds - eyes far off into a past she cannot parse. A memory maybe. If _Others_ could still have them.

Finally his eyes find hers again. And there’s a new depth to them. A strength that makes her heart ache for the men she has left behind - for the men she has abandoned. “You cannot help others if you don’t feel that you can help yourself,” he states with an air of finality that she has no choice but to accept it. “So… Can you?”

\---

  
  


Technically the War had ended. Ahsoka had not been directly involved in its cessation but she cannot help but wonder if, perhaps, her hand in the destruction of the hidden Sith Altar underneath her erstwhile home in the Jedi Temple had not played a part in it.

(It had _reeked_ of Darkness. It had been _strong_. Strong enough to tear into her. To leave new marks on her body. Marks she is never going to get rid of. Marks that brand her as a survivor of something so cruel and nefarious it should never have seen existence in the first place.)

And with the end of The War had come the release of the Spell Bound.

Millions of Clones, moulded and cast for one purpose only, and bound to Duty and the Republic by a matrix of Incantations that the Jedi Council had been trying to untangle for the entire duration of the War.

They hadn’t needed to untangle it, finally. This much had been clear: At the official end of the war, the spell would find its natural end.

And it had.

Except for this one, it seemed.

“He needs to come home,” the _Other_ insists through the milky, thin veil she floats in. Ahsoka reaches for the emotion that wells up in her - opens her palms to find the rough veneer of something that is unbearably vulnerable on the inside; opens her palms to find a _child_ staring at her small and awed in all the wrong ways, a bruise forming on their left temple.

She knows she is holding a clone even before the golden eyes come into focus.

“He hasn’t heard the call?”

The child in her palms vanishes and Ahsoka drifts for an unidentifiable stretch of time. She catches an impression of sharp stubble against her lek. The rumble of a bass voice rolls through her montrals. Broad, rough palms span her neck and-- the feeling is so familiar she breathes easier almost reflexively.

“I’m not certain he can believe it,” the _Other_ muses and the sensations vanish.

The veil of the _Other Side_ disappears around her. Gives her back to the hard materiality of reality even if her lek still tingles from the brush of stubble against her and her neck is still warm with the phantom grip of a soothing hand.

“This is a _Quest_ ,” she realizes with surprise when she tries to draw up an inventory what she will need to do. “Not merely…”

She has helped Anakin on a Quest or two, certainly. Even Plo had taken her along for a few and she knows - theoretically - what this will entail but in actuality she hasn’t done a lot more than play a supporting role in those for as long as she can remember. The Temple had always been very adamant that Quests were for Knights and Masters. (Padawans, she understood, could too easily get caught up in the flow of the _Other Side_ or focus on unnecessary details when swiftness of action was demanded. It is _not-good_ when _Others_ have to make a request more often than once.)

The _vod_ on the other side of her tent, snuggled comfortably onto the cushion she uses for meditation, tilts his head at her. “Will you back down from it?”

When there’s still one more to bring home? When the _vode_ have suffered enough as it is? How could I possibly let this sit? “How can I?”

\---

  
  


They are surprisingly imposing. Even if she has spent the most part of her formative years among their brothers, has gotten used to never quite reaching their shoulders, this one is a make all of his own. “ _Jeti’kat_ ,” they greet her, voice like churning teeth behind a visor she knows they will not lift for her.

They are also surprisingly hostile.

“ _Mando’ad_ ,” she greets carefully. “ _Eyay’ad_.”

She doesn’t know which one they prefer. Rex had explained that not all of them felt comfortable considering themselves _Mando’ade_ when the Duchess had so openly cast out their Originator. When they so obviously wore his face - and his characteristics - what was there to have from the planet whose leader had pushed out their First?

“What do you want,” they growl and there is _tension_ in their shoulders - preparation in the bend of their knees and no matter how unthreatening Ahsoka makes herself, she knows that they won’t believe her not to be an opponent until _something_ has given.

She swallows. Goes with the truth: “I want to bring you home.”

You and your men, she thinks, but if they’d had men with them, she cannot see them. And that might be a ruse but-- She doesn’t think it is.

A blaster lifts into her direction but, curiously enough, the battle that always sits in her chest - the war that is a warning bell in danger and the fear that is always in favour of surviving first - doesn’t stir. “I’ll never abandon my post,” they growl - and there is the rumble that she had first felt in her montrals; the echo of anger and determination and something almost like desperation. “Not until my dying breath.”

Ahsoka is tired. She’s walked for _days_ and nights without end because the stubborn thing in front of her had caught on to her trailing them and had not rested until now - when they’d finally turned around to face her. She doesn’t doubt that they could go another five days like this but if she doesn’t explain this now, then he had better shoot her down - or she’ll have failed her Quest.

“I will not make you draw it,” she breathes. Inhales the sweetness of the morning and feeds it to the war in her chest. The drums in the air seep away with the tension between the _vod_ and her. “But the call has come. And your brothers mourn you when you are yet living. But still here.”

The blaster lowers. “...It was real?”

“Yes.”

She almost makes a step towards them when the blaster raises again and _really_ how is she supposed to _do_ this when-- _Oh_. Ahsoka breathes again. Quells the war in her own blood and realizes that _this_ is what the _Other_ meant. (She could not give patience to this one without giving it to herself first.)

Their dust-dirty _kama_ sways just the slightest when they adjust their stance. _Suspicion_ blares from every angle of their body and Ahsoka takes another breath - lets go of the roll of battle-drums in her chest.

“How would you know about me?”

The _Other_ shines from a position at their elbow and it’s the first time, she thinks, since she’s found The One that they have appeared. Ahsoka knows better than to speak an untruth now: “...I… was guided here.”

The blaster lowers again. “You’re a _Hagazussa_.”

Technically - yes. This _would_ have been her designation if she’d have remained with the Order. It’s the path that had reached out for her and had been the specialisation of her former Masters. As it stands, however--

“I’m not...allowed within the Order any longer.”

Their stillness gives way for explosive movement. A fist to her face that she escapes. A knee to her nose she barely twirls out of.

“ _Dar’jetii!i_ ”

She blocks. “Hey! No!” Another block. “Stop!” A spin. A kick. She pushes him out. “That’s unfair! I’m not--!”

But he’s already lunging for her. Too quick to catch mid-air. Tackles her to the ground. And she’s not above rolling him. Releases the catch of his helmet. Breaks two fingers. Squabbles out of his reach for her neck. Jabs at him. Blocks and grounds down.

Finally--

Finally an opening. (ThankyouRex.) She immobilizes him.

Pants a teeth-baring growl into their face that they answer with the same ferocity even as she brings the Force to bear. “I’m _not_ _dar’jetii_ ,” she snarls. Settles heavier on their hips when they try to wiggle out and likely attack again. They rumble at each other. “And if I still had my sabres I would light them for you to know. But I don’t. Because the Order has them. And one of _yours_ has found me from the other side to bring you--”

“Who?”

“--home! What?”

She is unfocussed enough to let up on their arms for the blink of an eye but they don’t even move to attack her. Ahsoka leans away and feels the sharp scratch of their stubble against her lek. A sensory reminder.

“Who found you,” they grind - purple bruise stark against their temple. Angry and ferocious even on their back.

Ahsoka swallows around the uncomfortable realization that she has nothing but a number to give but the _Other_ stands just a few paces away from them - smile soft and hopeful in such a nostalgic way that she can’t help but answer.

“He said he’s 99.”

The resistance in their body wooshes out from underneath her that she has to recalibrate her balance in the blink of a moment and when she looks down, golden eyes close against a memory of warmth so loud that she wouldn’t be able to unhear it even if she had her shields up.

 _Or’tat_ , the wind whispers and Ahsoka sees the veneer of anger fall away until nothing remains but softness and the feeling that she is seeing something she shouldn’t.

\---

  
  


He wakes with her.

Which is ridiculous.

Ahsoka is roused by the song of the stars just before they will make way for the sun and she doesn’t know how he manages to sit up when she does. Doesn’t know how she can tell him that she does not need protection while she sinks into meditation and so, doesn’t.

Their trek back into lands that are familiar to them takes weeks. Moons even. And even with as little as he talks, she gleans information on the man nevertheless. His name is Bacara - _the bulwark_. Commander of the Galactic Marines and once under the leadership of Master Mundi before the Council had called him back and The Marines had been left on the Front they’d defended.

Without means of contact. And without the realization that… War had ended. As one, The Marines, had defended the strategic military bases from the last Separatist Stragglers and he had watched as every last of his men had _marched on_ until only he himself had been left. With no means to contact the outside world and demand supplies. Or aid. Or any form of contact.

“Too deep behind enemy lines,” he’d shrugged at one point. “I get why they’d write us off as too much of a risk to get back.”

Not, she thinks, that this has stopped them from re-calling Master Mundi. But she keeps that to herself.

\---

  
  


She’s bedding down next to him six or seven weeks into their trek when he turns to find her eyes in the low light of the golden plas-lights.

“You’re not like the _jeti’te_ I’ve seen before,” he says lowly and Ahsoka has half the mind to ask him who he’s comparing her to but-- she’d also rather not know. (It’s not the way of the Jedi to point fingers. Or it shouldn’t be.)

Instead she slips into her roll and shuffles around until she can look at him: “And I don’t understand your Mando’a despite having learned from your brothers. So I guess we’re both odd.”

Bacara snorts but doesn’t deny it.

\---

  
  


The outer bounds wash over her like the sharp taste of pepper and Ahsoka hasn’t realized how far they’d already come but-- “I can’t lead you any further,” she says abruptly. Stands and debates taking a few steps backwards - out of the bounds that have recognized her and ache with something familiar but electric.

Bacara turns with a face that says exactly what his mouth can’t find the words for.

“I’m not permitted to walk further,” she tries. (But that’s not _exactly_ it. She doesn’t _know_ what this is…) “This land is…”

“... _be jeti’te_?”

Bless him for catching up quickly, she thinks. Nods. “I’m not…” _Something_ tingles at her, “...welcome here.” (But she doesn’t _know_ that and the sensation is _foreign_ and she should _know_ these lands and _feel_ them yet it’s taken her running through the boundaries to actually _realize_ …)

The clone crosses his arms over his chest. “And yet your Quest doesn’t end until I’m home,” he challenges and-- He can’t know that. She thinks. But 99 stands at his elbow and his look is the same as that of his brother.

Ahsoka swallows and tries to breathe calmness into the bells of alarm in her blood. (It’s not until Bacara puts his warm, broad hand into her neck that the scent of blaster-residue, leathris from his belt and polish sink into her chest and blanket the shrillness of the bells in her chest.)

\---

  
  


“What’s your name,” he croaks from his knees.

Her hand is on his shoulder. A small hope to steady him but she thinks he feels it either way. In the valley below them stretch the first settlements of his brothers and the guards at their backs mill around in busy efficiency.

The Marine has arrived - and the _alor_ themself wants to welcome him.

“Which one?” she asks him carefully when she sits down next to him, accepts the sag of his shoulders against hers.

The stone is cool and damp under her and the Force flows freely in this untouched land that Ahsoka thinks she could run these borders forever and never tire of the spring-fresh taste of peppermint that comes with the exciting feeling of being in the near vicinity of those freed and _elated with it_.

“The one you give to everyone,” Bacara asks and looks at her – questioning.

Not a demand and she doesn’t know how many _vode_ may have already forgotten her. Doesn’t know how many of them have already _marched on_ and it can’t hurt, can it? To give him the name that she has given them? The one that _not_ everyone knows but that had been a given among the brothers she’d learned from.

“Ahsoka Tano,” she says softly and follows his tug into the Keldabe Kiss.

“Then I am in your debt, Ahsoka Tano.” And she knows that this is a saying among his people. She knows that there are enough who would accept this and move on but--

“You are not.”

Her forehead rolls against his gently when she shakes her head, but she doesn’t open her eyes even when he grunts his dissent.

“That’s not how the _Mando’ade_ work,” he chides her but settles his arms heavier around her shoulders. An extension of their kiss. A realization to him that she is not going to _remain_.

“Good for me then that you’re not entirely _Mando’ad_ , isn’t it, _cabur?_ ”

\---

  
  


“What will you do now, Daughter-Touched?”

She’s been looking at the retreating back of Bacara. Held by his shoulders and his arms and his middle by _tat’kate_ who have only ever heard of The Marine and that one _vod_ who’d torn his own _buy’ce_ off to haul Bacara into a _kov’nyn_ that looked almost painful until their hands hand clutched at each other in the way that spoke of brothers finding each other when all hope had been abandoned.

“...I’ve heard of a Master,” she starts carefully. Uncertain even as she unfoils the idea from the corner she’d first abandoned it in her mind when she’d conceived it.

“Yes?”

Ahsoka hums. “He’s not… like others; from what I’ve gathered. And there’s a chance he’s not even alive anymore given the rumours.”

“Ah!” The _Other_ practically beams with his smile. “The venerated Master Jon Antilles.”

“You know him?”

The _Other_ wags his head a bit uncertainly. Amends: “I know _of_ him.” A short pause. “He has not crossed over yet. Your chances at finding him are good.”

Are they though? The worlds are vast and Ahsoka is only one sentient. “...How can you know?” she breathes quietly.

99 catches her eyes with his _vod_ -golden ones, deep and trusting and _knowing_ in a way that is so usual to the myriad of brothers who’d all had different lives despite their uniformity. Their presence, even as he is thinning from the materialist reality she lives in, soothes her ere he has even said his piece.

“You are Daughter-Touched. And Jon has always followed the flow of That Which Touches. Don’t run too fast and he will catch up with you.”

[Three weeks into her trek-by-foot for the next neutral system, she gobbles up a weed of a man who looks like his robes could use some mending. “Oh,” she hums when he tells her his name. “I didn’t think you’d find me so soon.]

[“You said someone brought you here,” Cody starts from his side. Tankard of _netra’gal_ in his hands. Bacara can’t help his snort at the unsubtle introduction, but he takes a swig from his own tankard and leans back into the soft, woven blanket in the colours of the sunset that she had somehow smuggled into his rucksack. “A _jeti’kat,_ ” he confesses. “Ahsoka Tano.” Cody freezes for a second, a startled look of surprise widening the features of his face before he pulls him up abruptly and drags him from the warmth of the fire. “Rex! REX! Your _jeti’ika_ is alive! And still _shab’la di’kut’la_!”]

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shrugs* I like the idea of Ahsoka and Jon...


	23. [E] You deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You deserve someone who values you" with Hardcase/Jesse/Kix
> 
> (watch out for unhealthy coping mechanisms pls)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there is a good deal of unhealthy coping mechanisms and an entirely unrealistic solution to it - **Sex does not magically solve everything**
> 
> can, maybe, be read as a precursor to Ch 10 "Oenomel" 
> 
> this is one of the prompts that just _got away_ with me which is why it took me so long to actually upload and I'm STILL NOT SATISFIED but have it anyways...

+++

Jesse knows that Hardcase is a controversial choice.

Not because their vod doesn't deserve it (very few among those who have survived the bitter end are), but because Hardcase is like drift-wood in the seas.

Jesse doesn't right get it if he's honest.

And Kix would hit him he weren't. [With an experimental drug, the next time he needed a quick-fix for his hangover. No thanks. Jesse likes to think he's learned from his errors.]

But 'case…

Hardcase. 'Cas'ika who has been the only _vod_ stubborn and strong and present enough to get through Fives when Echo was MIA-- The _vod_ who went up against his ARC _ori'vod_ and lived (won) to pull his head out of his arse and get him on the road of mental healing-- The _vod_ who actually held his own emotions in check to let his brother heal and make his own advances before accepting them on the terms of actually communicating--

Jesse doesn’t even know what happened to that _vod_.

Because that ‘case is pretty much gone. Sort of… Yeah, no. He doesn’t know where that Hardcase has gone.

Where that patience has gone.

The confidence.

It’s not just him who’s seen it, he knows.

Ever since the end of the war and their consequent search for professions that could undo the bore that, sometimes, turned out to be civilian living, Hardcase has… pulled back. In a way.

It had been natural at first. A by-product of his apprenticeship to a sentient that knew their business and had seen a good head on ‘case’s shoulders and a way to curb his incessant brain with a few choice tests and riddles that resulted in their explosion-happy heavy gunner being one of the most demanded structural engineers in, at least, twenty systems. It’s a reputation he’s had to build and it had been logical that, for a time, Hardcase had not been within their immediate… grasp. Circle of attention.

Whatever’s happened must have happened then because--

The ‘case that returned to them is different.

Not bad. Never that. Hardcase is a _vod_ \- _vod’ika_ \- and nothing he has done, does or will do can remove him from that status in Jesse’s opinion. He’s still loud but-- More panicky so, he’s found. Shrill sometimes where before his booming voice had carried. Twitches when the bodies of _vod’e_ close in on him but ignorantly ‘okay’ when the bodies of strangers block him.

‘Case’s brain has always been wired differently. They’d known that from the moment they’d picked him up and integrated him into the ranks - and he knows that he liked to joke about _hyperactivity_ but-- Jesse has had Kix explain it to him. Has looked it up and read enough treatises for himself and he knows that for all that Hardcase thinks it’s a good jab at his almost-defectiveness, a sharp reminder of _Kamino’yaim_ , Kix and Jesse have found some ring of truth to it.

Which is why it is not necessarily surprising but definitely a bit startling to realize that ‘case - the _new_ ‘case - is no stranger to illegal substances that Kix has looked up to have mentally altering effects. Psychoactive, Kix had called it. And Jesse, having taken the month to observe his choice knows what Kix means. And knows what ‘case seems to get from it:

A quiet brain.

The sudden realization that he has not, actually, eaten anything the whole day.

A chance to finally sleep.

And while these things are worrying enough, this is not, originally what has called Kix onto the plan with a half-shaped idea of an intervention and, consequentially, Jesse, with an altercation to Kix’ idea.

No. What is _troubling_ , is ‘case’s… relationships.

Again. He is not one to begrudge his _vod’e_ their interactions. Wouldn’t dream of judging their choices so long as they are made of sound mind and with consenting partners. Can, sometimes, even overlook the part of ‘sound mind’ because… he knows very few brothers who’ve been in such a state when they’d lose their batch and turn to an _ori’vod_ with a quiet plea to help them forget. Such was the nature of things and it wasn’t a good coping mechanism but it was, at the very least, acknowledged as such among the _vod’e_. And if a _vod_ went forward from the end of the war with a strict denial of any permanent relationships then that’s alright. Again - consenting partners, personal choices all that.

But.

There’s a ‘but’ where ‘case’s is concerned. There _is_. And it should be heard. Because Jesse has _eyes_ in his head.

[Fuck, every _vod_ has.]

And they all know that ‘case and Fives-- Had been forged in an untenable moment, in an impossible situation that had turned them into something iron and durable and _solid_. Too solid, maybe, in hindsight.

Because the moment Echo had been rescued from the Action he’d been missing in, Fives had turned around so quickly the _Generals_ had complained about whiplash and Hardcase had _crumbled_ like an overheated and too quickly cooled piece of star-fighter-hull that someone had taken an unforgiving sledgehammer to.

Which made the entire thing _fucking terrible_ because Fives hadn't, at the time, have the emotional awareness to realize what he’s _done_ and hadn't managed to talk to ‘case before the _shabuir_ fucked off to his new apprenticeship and came back with the pieces of himself pulled back together all jumbled and jagged and with painfully hungry, terribly yearning eyes that stuck to Fives and Echo hard enough that Tup took one look at their _vod_ before they turned him back around and Jesse probably doesn’t want to know what caused their resident Teardrop to lay out both ARCs on the mats like they had the following week after.

Even so.

‘Case is not without his own faults in the situation.

That whole not-talking-about-it-kark is cadet-level.

Unlike the poodoo Hardcase has started pulling on himself. Because this is the troubling part.

Where others would seek consenting partners and establish both of them in sound minds, Hardcase has taken to forsake the second so he could pretend to be the first.

Jesse’s entire being lights up in white-hot fury when he finds Kix patching up the shackle abrasions around Hardcase’s wrists that tell a tale of _struggle_ and _actually wanting out_.

“Why do you do that, ‘cas’ika?”

“Feels good to be needed.”

Jesse knows Kix' sigh intimately. It holds a thousand words – most of them contrary – and is born less of patience rather than his riduur's iron hold on his vows to _help_.

“This looks more like being used to me, ‘cas’ika,” he tries carefully. Hardcase shrugs – eyes empty and lost and what had been fury dies into an unheard yowl of empathy and pain for a _vod'ika_.

“Same difference.”

Even that fails to compare to the moments where sheer blackness takes him and Jesse cannot, in hindsight, remember what he’s done when he comes across the asshole he’s observed ‘handling’ Hardcase just days ago in a back-alley that his _vod’ika_ didn’t deserve even when he was being a _shabuir_ to outlast all _shabuire._

…

He tells himself that it’s because he’d been SiC and used to looking out for his men but he finds Rex two weeks into his observations and his Captain-turned-Commander has nothing but heavy alcohol for him.

“I’ve tried talking to him,” his Commander confesses. “And I got nothing. Except he avoids me like the plague now.”

And that hurts his _vod_. Jesse can tell. It’s not fair, either, that Hardcase has a really good _reason_ , most of the time, to be _gone_ from their immediate circle of contacts.

“You’re snooping because you have a plan.” Rex, for all that he has ceased working as a Commander in the GAR is still the one who has ears everywhere and knows _all_. Somehow. It might have something to do with the rumours around his own relationship but-- Jesse is not here for that. Not right now.

“I’m snooping because I have a strategy for a battle we don’t even know the stats of yet,” he growls back and Rex is steady when he nods. Pulls a PADD.

“‘case is back on planet for the next two weeks according to his time-table. Has to finish up a job after that. Payment’s still outstanding and frankly if the _shabuir_ doesn’t forge over the fekkin’ coal I’mma have to see about a conversation but--” he gives Jesse a look that he still knows from their days in the GAR. Jesse knows that he hasn’t heard even a _word_ of the last sentence. “But he should be planet-side for a bit longer after that. Get your claws in him now and reel him in when he’s back. I think that’d be your best bet for whatever it is that Kix and you have concocted between the two of you.”

Now Jesse wants to protest but--

Rex raises a pointed eyebrow and is already reaching for another folder. One that Jesse doesn’t need to see to know that it likely contains intel on Kix and him and-- Rex has always been a scarily competent asshat but--

“Bring them around sometime soon,” he hisses almost affronted. “It’s _unholy_ to have the three of you working together like that. It should be _de-legalized_.”

“That’s not a word, Jess’ika,” Rex reprimands, but he doesn’t correct him on his allegations.

All the good stars in the universe…

“Now run along and have a talk with your _riduur_ , Sergeant. I expect to hear good things.”

Fek that nerf-herding--

Jesse makes an about-turn and leaves. With _dignity_. There is most certainly no huffing about it. [But if there is, well he hasn’t come here to get so _attacked_.]

…

“That’s it,” his _riduur_ whispers gently into the sharp jaw of his _vod_ , wet and panting and stubbornly _taking_ the limits that they’re trying to test out. Jesse’s on watch for any signs of discomfort, more used to ‘case’s sometimes miniature signals after his _research_ , while Kix is the one working the dildo into their vod. Hardcase is breathing harshly. A good thing.

Jesse’s seen him drop into 4-count-breaths when Kix had held a long-enough monologue while holding a collar up to ‘case’s neck - mock-debating whether or not to don it, while ‘case had played ‘out of it’. Waiting for what was going to happen. Waiting for what he would need to brace himself for. He had been so focussed on his act, he hasn’t noticed Jesse’s signal to Kix.

When their _baar’uur_ had laid a groaning, nipping kiss to the skin under ‘case’s ear, however, their trooper’s breath had hitched so _sweetly_ that Kix hadn’t needed telling.

‘case likes his throat touched - caressed. Likes it kissed. Likes it nipped. Doesn't like it obstructed or blocked and Kix had worshipped the strip of skin with soft, increasingly lewd praises of their _vod_ ’s reactions until ‘case _was_ starting to drop away for real. Enough to lose focus of his mask long enough to actually _wince_ when Kix’ ‘fumbling’ in their toy-box brought forth the riding crop.

[Kix not ashamed of admitting that he borrowed some of that Ohnaka flare to discard ‘that old thing’ with a flick of his arm behind his back.]

But ‘case likes his skin nipped and bruised. Likes the tight hold of restricting hands as he tries to bend into a caress and when their medic starts to work him over, he is already covered in a slight sheen of sweat that makes him shine in the low light of their room.

“That’s it, _vod’ika_ ,” Kix’d praised him with the cadence and care of someone who’d just realized that ‘case _liked_ being praised to the point of whimpering, scraped his teeth over the hip-bone and slicked their _vod_ up with his fingers but--

‘case hadn’t reacted at all. Jesse isn’t certain if he hadn’t let himself or if he hadn’t wanted to lest it was an unfavourable reaction and the attention paid to him fade and--

“ _Shit!_ ”

He doesn’t know where Kix’d had the idea from but his _riduur_ had reached for seemingly the next best toy and slicked it up until the blunt head of an impressive fake cock had pressed against ‘case and their _vod_ had jumped up and--

It’s where he is now - held back by Jesse’s towering hulk on his upper body, splayed out and held down on the soft mattress trying to bite _pleased_ noises back behind his teeth whenever Kix rolls the dildo against his opening and inches _incrementally slowly_ into him while Jesse takes the opportunity to nip at his neck and lave the flushing skin while listening to Kix croon filthy things into their _vod’s_ ear.

It’s an addictive thing: having Kix be a participant in taking their third apart. It's not always a given. Considering how much Jesse had found out his _riduur_ could take the oath to _serve_ to heart. And take a liking in it as well. But maybe that’s exactly why he’s not in his usual position this time.

…

“Doesn’t that feel good, ‘cas’ika?”

‘case doesn’t like verbosity in these moments. Something that frustrates Kix as much as it terrifies him - because even now he can see his _vod_ rather eating his lower lip rather than make any noise that’s construed as unwanted.

[And because he _remembers_ the waterfall-mouth ‘case used to be. _Especially_ in situations like these. Remembers the levity he would manage to bring to any tense moment, and remembers not-watching him ride Fives into the most breath-taking, emotional and physical release while whisper-singing his praises to him. He wants to know what’s happened to that ‘case.]

His body is worked to an edge - Kix can tell. There’s a fine tremor in his limbs and his breathing is _shot_ in a way that tells him enough of how gone Hardcase is but even in his blind enjoyment there are moments when he locks up hard and breathes to a four-four-cadence rather than let this be over.

“You’re doing so well for us, you pretty thing,” Jesse groans into his ears. “Let us take good care of you, _vod’ika_. None of that quick-fix-business now.”

Jesse signals and Kix ceases his ministrations with the dildo. Rubs his hands up the body of the _vod_ between them and Hardcase _whines_ , awfully, but so beautifully that it almost breaks Kix’ heart. He knows that this far in the dildo has stopped just shy of that one spot. When he tries to buck into Kix lap, he holds fast - thumb pressing into the bruise he’d sucked into ‘case’s hips earlier and their _vod_ strains beautifully into the sensation of being denied and given something else.

“We’re not quite done with you yet,” Jesse croons and Kix fumbles for another thing in their toy-box.

It’s mostly just for shock-value if he’s honest. Just to see if--

“ _No_.”

\--Kix coos an exultant breath into the sides of his _vod_ as he discards the ball-gag while Jesse rubs his thumbs into the tense muscles of ‘case’s shoulders.

“‘cas’ika’s first word!” Jesse sings like a mock-proud-parent but ‘case’s fingers come alive and dig into Jesse’s forearm. Blunt nails carefully not raking over the skin as he pants through the stroke Kix rewards him with.

“Fuck I hate you,” Kix’ lips seal over the head of his hardness. Heavy and drooping on his tongue, salty and wet and wider than Jesse and whoever said cloning made for a hundred percent accurate copy of another body has never accounted for the 3% of genetic diversity found among them. He hums.

“Fuck!”

Hardcase bucks hard. Whines into the push of the dildo when his hips sink back down. Twitches up into Kix hold, down into the push of the toy.

“You with us, ‘case?”

“Nngh.”

As good an answer as any.

“Good, because this is an intervention.”

Kix almost chokes on the dick in his mouth when he tries to snort and judged by ‘case’s breathy giggles and the sly look of his _riduur_ when he opens his eyes to give him the stinkiest eye a medic can conjure, he hasn’t quite managed to curb his reaction quickly enough. Jesse is an asshole. [But he’s his.]

…

“I’d like to get behind you,” Jesse offers when he sinks them down on the ground next to the bed, “watch you suck off Kix and push you on him. Watch you take me if I lower my eyes just enough.”

His voice is rough. Both from anger and from the want that has been tugging at him for hours now - watching his _riduur_ coax their _vod_ into the mental state of softness where he’d _hear_ what they had to say. Help coax their _vod_ back into a version of himself that felt less jagged.

Hardcase is heavy in his arms, loose and empty and way too alert for someone who’s supposed to get _stuffed_ and Jesse doesn’t _want_ him to think but he needs him aware for consent.

‘case nods. Quick and shaky and non-verbal again and it’s a bit of guess-work, sometimes, to see where the ‘new ‘case’ gets non-verbal and where the ‘old ‘case’ rears his head but Jesse is careful when Kix arranges himself on the bed before them. Naked and beautiful and legs spread to allow for his proud cock. Hardcase makes a hungry noise.

“Can I?”

Jesse kisses his shoulder in response, watches their _vod_ take the nod of his _riduur_ and there’s something desperate and grateful about the way ‘case falls onto the length of Kix, barely hesitating. Just slow enough to not choke himself needlessly and-- Kix hums, approvingly, knuckles rasping over the millimeter buzz on ‘case’s head, where his usually polished baldness has been thwarted by weeks of work and no time. Hardcase makes a noise between a whine and a sigh when Jesse sets his teeth - gently - into his shoulder and watches the _vod_ between him and his _riduur_ relax his throat almost as if in a reflexive reaction. Kix groans.

“Good to us, ‘cas’ika. Pretty like that too.”

A wheeze. A twitch of the arms Jesse has pulled to his _vod’s_ lower back - better to guide his movements and to stop him should he need to. He hasn’t, since that moment before but he doesn’t know that ‘case won’t try it again.

Hardcase swallows around Kix - now fully vanished behind his lips and Jesse feels the conscious relaxation exercise their _vod_ cycles through. Strokes a heavy, rough hand up and down the side of their _vod_.

“That’s it, _vod’ika_. Like it when you take care of yourself. Don’t start before you’re ready, yeah?”

He’s gentle when he slips his fingers down to the stretched opening of his vod. Mischievous when he brushes his fingers along the rim and breaches just to hear the stereo moans of the two of them and when ‘case tugs on his arms, he permits their release - if only because ‘case needs his balance to re-arrange his limbs but--

There’s a hitch in his breath and Jesse has pulled him off Kix even before ‘case’s reaction could be a stubborn suction but their _vod_ comes easily. Even if he doesn’t raise his head and--

“Green,” he croaks. Voice shot with the tears he can hear and the roughness of someone who’s just had a dick tickling their throat.

Jesse clicks his tongue even as he pushes heavier against Hardcase, blankets their _vod_ in weight as Kix’ hand settles into the neck in a gesture that makes almost every trooper calm - except that ‘case’s breath hitches again. “‘cas’ika--”

Their _vod_ bucks. Ruts against Jesse’s hardness and turns with tear-shiny eyes and an almost angry jut to his brows.

“Green, you _asshat_ ,” he repeats, and Jesse’s heart misses a beat when he recognizes--

“I can’t believe you’ve planned to break me open with fucking _gentleness_ ,” he rasps even as he reaches for the lube and chucks it down his back between him and Jesse as he reaches for Kix again. “ _Green_ ,” and then he swallows his _riduur_ down and _does something_ that makes Kix’ hips twitch.

[‘case lets go. Howls into the hands that hold him and bucks into their restraint until they’ve wrung every last drop from him. Until the unbearable stretch of his skin has fallen into a mute echo of touches and until the buzz of his head has quietened after the third orgasm. He doesn’t even notice the tears or his babbling mouth. Doesn’t notice the fresh tears when no one makes to shut him up. He’s held tightly between Kix and Jesse and when nothing remains to be done except to lie and hold each other, a new kind of realization settles in him.]

…

“That’s the third he’s turned down tonight,” Coric muses into his beer, eyes on Hardcase and Tup, sitting at the bar and sharing what seemed to be like a few leisurely cups of tea. Tup reaches for Hardcase’s fingers now and again - when his legs start to jump; when his shoulders start to tense. But it’s obvious that the touches are being well-received. A grounding sensation for a brain that’s prone to flying off at the handle.

The third offer for something else flits by Hardcase without more of a notion than the shake of his head, a few words and then a blatant dismissal by the turn of his shoulder and the return of his attention to the story that Tup is telling him.

He looks tired.

Drawn.

Kix figures that’s what a month of work on Tatooine will do to you. But there’s something _new_ there. Something tentative and unsettled in its freshness. Something with an element of trial.

Even so, Hardcase takes no offers and doesn’t leave the chair next to Tup except for excusing himself for the bathroom from where he always promptly returns to park himself right back into the chair.

Huh.

…

It’s a thing that’s quickly noticeable for anyone who’s a _vod_.

‘case doesn’t drink as much and would prefer not being bought anything if possible - but especially when it’s an alcoholic beverage. If there is an occasion that calls for ‘a round’, he will take tea – unsweetened.

Kix quietly slips the man a prescription for herbal medicines that take him out of the dark corners behind bars and in the lower levels and Jesse promises to tattle on Rex if he ever finds ‘case mixing stimulants. Despite their freedom from the GAR, the threat makes the _vod_ cringe with the desired attrition.

He falls back when he returns from a stint that’s turned out to be so solitary ‘case jumps even at the first skin contact Jesse makes with him. But he is also among the first walk-ins Kix welcomes to his small clinic the next day and shyly accepts the ‘homework’ of figuring out what it is that’s made him fall back.

“You deserve better,” Jesse hears him repeat in-cadence with Kix, “You deserve someone who values you.”

At least their _vod’ika_ doesn’t _argue_ the point anymore, rather than mock it. Jesse will take it. Progress is not linear but if their _vod’ika_ can repeat the mantra verbatim that means it’s found its way into his psyche and that’s where they want it.

[The others see it.

Fives and Echo see it.

When Fives opens his bar, a year later, he asks for Hardcase's help on the structural integrity of the building and Jesse gets a hint from Rex that there might be something more to it. Kix nearly busts their balls to be _careful_ with him. Echo, prepared as he is, already has a plan laid out. Jesse only approves it after revision.]

  
  
  
  
  



	24. [M] By its cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why are you bleeding? Where did all these puppies come from?" with Boil/Waxer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally two different prompts, I thought it'd be best to put them together because they sound beautifully chaotic right there :)

+++

"N'b'dy tell Boel."

Ahsoka sighs and tries not to pinch the bridge of her own nose. She's wearing the sanitary gloves for a reason and even on vid-call as Kix is right now, he'd know and he'd ream her for it.

"Why should we not tell your boyfriend about your current state?" she asks carefully, while she does her best to figure out whether or not the nose under her fingers is broken. Nothing _shifts_ ominously and the cartillage doesn't feel squishy but Kix said to check it out either way. Waxer groans but-- frankly, Ahsoka has heard worse. The blood is also a good thing so--

"'s far as the EMT can tell there's no break," she utters into Kix' direction.

" _Doc's gonna have to believe that,_ " he snips back but it doesn't sound like a disagreement despite his sour tone. She can't really fault him for that – they're taking up his precious time on-break for this and Kix is trying to eat while simultaneously being her advisor in this impromptu stitch-up.

Rex had hailed him because the boys' antic-related-injuries are usually Kix' fare and Ahsoka had arrived just in time to avoid an _incident_ over the phone

Waxer's answer, meanwhile has completely passed her by.

"Aren't you constantly on our case that he's 'more than just his murderface, Cody'?"

Judged by the soft sound of impact, Ahsoka thinks Cody does not enjoy being put on the spot like that. Not even by Rex – which is cute but also--

"If there's any _more_ injuries I'll have to tend to, I'll be getting out the Gaffer so you can observe from the ceiling, _am I clear_?"

Silence.

"Good."

She loves the idiots – she does. She's just also on her day off and she'd originally planned on some pancakes, a good movie and then _personal time_. None of which is now happening, obviously, because Rex and Cody crashed her pad with some cider, ready to relish in the lovely chaos that promised to be the new Wes Anderson movie. Which hadn't worried her at first – the addition of the two could have been a good one for her lonesome hours later but as it stands they'd only been the herald to the deluge of people who had apparently been drawn to her humble abode like iron splinters to a magnet.

Her living room is _cramped_. And her cousin hadn't even called before waltzing through the door with her new partner – that she'd been living with for _years_ in the Community Housing Project. [Ahsoka had bet good credits on that, she's going to be relentless in cashing in.] And the _puppers_...

Waxer surreptitiously pushes some blood out through his lips. Probably bitten his tongue. The idiot.

"Still," he mutters, "don't tell'im-- he'll fret."

 _Fret_. "Waxer," she has patience mind you, it's just... thin today, "you are _bleeding_ from... from your everywhere."

Fett-Amber eyes find hers with a stubborn set to them that she knows is about to call her out on whatever small shit she'd just gone wrong with. "'s'not true."

"... _fine_ ," she concedes and finally manages to tape the laceration on his nose. "Your face though... is very red."

And Waxer... He's a love. Honestly. Cute and warm and heartfelt and _sincere_ and none of them have ever understood his devotion to Boil who seemed to be the entire _opposite_ of what Waxer is. Right now, however, Waxer is also a bit punch-stupid and all he does is give her a smile that...

"No. No – red in a bad way," she amends.

Red in a really bad way that's dripped all over her entrance and into her kitchen and thank the gods for tile and mops because this would have been a _mess_ on carpet. Much as the little _presents_ of Wooley's and Waxer's bring-alongs.

But Waxer looks better now, at least.

"Lemme see your tongue."

His face is stitched and his nose is done. The swelling on his eye is going to come down in a few hours and then turn the most impressive rainbow-shades in the coming weeks and she's looking forward to having Kix write him a slip for recuperation. He's going to need it.

His tongue doesn't look bad at all. Turns out it's the cheek he's bitten and it bleeds a little more than she thinks should be warranted but it should sort itself out with time.

His shoulder is black and blue but the bones are miraculously unharmed and she's just about to take a look at his hands – reflexively raised in defense – when her door goes--

"Waxer?"

Fuck.

Here is the thing that undoes her calm.

Boil, for all that he's been dating Waxer close to a year now, has never really had the chance of _being vetted_ as most of the Fett-dating boys-girls-and-other were. Because Waxer is usually the one with the good intel and he hasn't budged on giving any of it free to them – nor has he budged from demanding they leave Boil be.

Which has left them with what they could observe.

Boil is a hard-ass. Teaches some sort of Karate-Kung-Fu (Jiu-Jitsu, he teaches Jiu-Jitsu) at a gym not too far away, makes decent money with that and has done two tours. A loner who walked into their bar one evening, sat down and never went away again. One who came by Kix' small clinic once or twice with bruised knuckles and a split lip on his own. [Kix would never rat out his patients but if Jesse happens to see who walks in and out from accross the street behind his counter then he is not bound to the same secrecy.]

None of which prepares Ahsoka for the small, teal-haired _something_ that zooms past her with a loud squeal of _puupeeeeeeeeees_ and almost immediately becomes one with the pack.

Boil doesn't even seem to notice.

"Waxer?" His voice is thin. Worried and even with the sudden entrance of two more into her room, she can tell that he is the one that makes everyone freeze.

In front of her Waxer lifts the arms she was just about to inspect closer. "Boel," he huffs happily, angling for an embrace Ahsoka isn't certain about right now.

" _Cyare_ what the fuck?"

" _Fuck!_ " the _something_ in the back of her room happily echoes and Ahsoka... might have stepped into the twilight zone because Boil is... stepping into the circle of Waxer's arms, quick hands assessing for bone-damage and concussion the way she had just half an hour ago and giving her surtures a quick once over before gently cradling Waxer's purpe face in hands that look big enough to snap a trachea.

A whine: "Why are you bleeding? Where did all these puppies come from? ... _Why_ are you _bleeding_?!"

She shoulders past him, plucks a hand from Boil's hip and sprays it with disinfectant. "He's fine, Boil."

That Zappa on his upper lip sure is impressive. "He's _bleeding_."

"He's _fine_ ," she insists. At least she's familiar with this part of the patching-people-up. "Look. Waxer – who's the President of the United States?"

The sheer look of _affront_ is so comical that despite the circumstances, she can't help but smile at the vehement " _No_." that emerges from Waxer's mouth. Despite the fact that the Cheeto in Charge is not even _theirs_.

"See?"

The teal-haired thing is back. Fingers treading into a small hole in Boil's jacket that she has noticed before but never given much thought to. The girl looks uncertain – small even with the brown pup in her arms, trying to merge with Boil's leg. Ahsoka smiles, but turns back to Waxer.

Boil keeps holding his hand for the entire rest of the patch-up and Ahsoka can't help but think that this is unbearable adorable. Especially when she releases her patient from her care and Boil wastes no time glaring the peanut gallery off her couch so he can put both Waxer and the girl – _Numa –_ down and fetch them tea and cake until even Wooley hides his face in his (washed) hands.

[He's the one who lugged Waxer from the construction site and its ill-fated scaffolding to her home because _it was closest_ and she has a soft spot for the idiot that has been easily exploited into handing over a key that she sort of wants back now. But also doesn't because who knows where else they'll go _next time_.]

"I wouldn't have believed it it I weren't seeing it with my own two eyes," Cody admits from the floor where he's leaning against the side of the couch that Boil has declared is for Waxer and Numa only. And the puppies. [Ahsoka doesn't know _when_ but apparently she's lost control of her home and it's now ruled by Tattooed Vet Jiu-Jitsu Dads With A Soft Spot For Street-Urchins. And Waxer.

"Told you he's sweet," Waxer hums from the couch, debating whether or not to accept the Ibuprofen Ahsoka is holding up from within the cradle of Cody's legs – Rex' head on her lap.

"You're looney," she accuses when he takes the proffered meds.

"Yeah," he shrugs and she knows that he can be lackadaiscal about it because – even if he is, none of them can unsee Boil and his valiant attempt-slash-success at Motherhenning the entirety of the currently present Fett-Clan. [It's hilarious. And terrifying.]

"I can't wait for him to meet Obi-Wan," Ahsoka whispers with something like awe when Boil manages to wrangle – via _video-call_ – a promise out of Kix to _come by later and_ _ **get something to eat you look like you're competing with Christian Bale for the Machinist**_ _._

"He's going to adopt him so quickly Jan'buir's gonna get whiplash," Rex agrees and Cody sighs a long-suffering sound into her neck.

"Don't we have enough loons to go around?"

Ahsoka isn't necessarily repentant when she lifts her hand to card it into the rich thickness of his locks. She _loves_ the feeling. "We're gonna need an army if we wanna rule the world, Codes."

The warm squeeze of his thick arm around her middle is certainly going to feature in her imaginings later tonight. Mmmmmh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waxer gets hit by unstable scaffolding and miraculously survives. Wooley takes him to Obi-Wan's-and-Ahsoka's house they pick up puppies on the way and _everyone_ else also turns up. 
> 
> Yes, Ahsoka may be alluding to _alone-time_ involving fantasies about Cody and Rex and Cody-and-Rex.
> 
> AAAAAND it now has a [Spin Off](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650522/chapters/64992094) bc I actually do like it when people are interested in... second helpings :b


	25. [T] These lessons can keep coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you think you can teach me that?" with Obi-Wan & Feemor

+++

He is fourteen when he first catches sight of the blond. Tall and burly and hands buried arms-deep in the soil of the Garden - not _planting_ so much as he is… _Communing_. 

The Force always does shine in the Room of a Thousand Fountains - with the tinkling laughter of youngins, the elated breaths of relaxation from the Masters and Knights returned weary and drawn from far-away missions and the always-present gurgling of some stream. 

But there is something _different_ in the sway of the trees and the peacefulness of the Milla-flower-bushes surrounding the blond. Something a good deal more peaceful than Obi-Wan had felt in nigh six months and the tension he was thinking would a permanent presence in his shoulders and neck tickles away from him as he takes a seat and just closes his eyes. 

He hasn’t managed a fruitful meditation in some days and he doesn’t even attempt one now but-- The ease of sinking into his surroundings to find _peacecalmlight_ and _safesafesafe_ washes surprising tranquility over him that he hadn’t even considered was missing. 

“It’s easy to forget it when you’re on the front-lines,” he hears and when he opens his eyes finds the blond, carefully extracting his hands from the earth in front of him and not even bothering to clean them before he settles them into his robe and eases into a seat opposite of Obi-Wan. 

Obi-Wan hums. Wonders if this one knows, somehow, who he is - where he has been - when he clearly has him at a disadvantage. 

There are wrinkles in the corners of his eyes - tired, sun-kissed and used to letting his smiles reach his eyes - and they crinkle now, when he tilts his head to take a closer look at Obi-Wan. 

“Knight Feemor,” he finally says, bows strangely smoothly in his seat and Obi-Wan echoes the gesture. 

“Padawan Kenobi,” he returns. 

The Knight’s smile widens - a hint of teeth through his lips. “I know. Your Master has once played an important role in my turning out. It’s easy to hear of his coming-and-goings.” 

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to make of the first part of the sentence. Doesn’t know if he has the fortitude to ask for clarification right now. Doesn’t know if he is _actually_ ready to talk - as he’d convinced himself he is. Running from pain is not the Jedi-Way but--

“Do you think you can teach me that?” he asks. 

Neither is it the Jedi-Way to move into battle unprepared. To engage with an opponent when the mind is not clear. That way, he had often been told, did not lie wisdom. 

Knight Feemor’s smile is a genial thing. And freely given. For Obi-Wan sees it again when he asks. Soft and so at home on the fair, freckled face of the Knight. 

“Digging hands into soil?” he teases, accepting the change of topic. Obi-Wan hadn’t known he’d been gearing up for a confrontation until he exhales. 

“I’m… more in tune with the Unifying aspect of the Force and--” He gestures. Unsure of how to explain what Knight Feemor had done to their surroundings, how it _felt_ , how it made him feel. 

A moue of understanding illuminates the face in front of him. “Master Jinn is still in the habit of living nowhere but the Now then?” 

Quite. Obi-Wan doesn’t say. 

Doesn’t have to, because Knight Feemor is already pulling his sleeves up again and makes a sweeping motion to the patch of earth in front of them. 

“Let’s see what we can find in the Constant, then, shall we?” 

…

It’s difficult. Being back in the Temple. 

The press of bodies - _people_ \- and the Force can be overwhelming enough on its own even when he is not trying to stand straight in the presence of his once-again-Master rather than buckle under the near-overwhelming tension between them. The mistrust. The constant need to know where Obi-Wan is, whom he is with, what he is doing, what he is _thinking_. 

Obi-Wan is not a Master himself and he may never become one - given his current circumstances - but he is not quite convinced that _this_ is what a Training Bond is actually for. 

Which is why it’s so easy to take the side-steps offered by others. 

In this instance, it had been Master Windu himself who’d shown him the room and had let him know of the shame it was to have it so unoccupied. Obi-Wan may never become the diplomat his Master is - but he is adept enough to read between lines. 

Or he’d thought he was. 

Given what he’d learned of the nature of the room, he is not so certain any more. 

In the stillness of the twilight-golden room, it is easy to slip into meditation - easy to sink into the proffered seat and then into himself. He doesn’t know exactly where he goes but-- he thinks it might have something to do with the… with the magics hewn into the masonry around him. It is not rarely that he finds himself in the fields of Melida/Daan - finds himself influencing Elders until they ran, finds himself influencing the Young until their hands were steady on their weapons, until their minds were steady on their runs, until they didn’t feel pain lest it was safe to. 

Obi-Wan may have been thrust into the situation. But he knows what he is being taught. What he is being given lee-way to learn. Room to learn. In solitude. 

Until one day he opens his eyes and finds the sun-kissed freckles of Knight Feemor laughing at him from a seat opposite of him - head tilted in a way that suggests he is _listening_ to the Force. (It’s a tick he has sometimes seen on Master Qui-Gon but-- Something he is much more used to from Knight Feemor.) 

Blue eyes open to find his. Not quite sad but not quite as rejuvenatingly happy as he knows the Knight to be per usual. 

“Do you think you can teach me that?” he asks mellow. Soft. 

“I’m still learning myself,” Obi-Wan returns, cautious. Something is off but he can’t put his fingers on it just yet - not this soon out of an intense meditation. 

Knight Feemor’s smile reaches his eyes - it does - but not the warmth that is usually implicit in it. There is-- not distance but an unidentifiable emotion in him that he doesn’t, surprisingly, bother to hide in a veil of _serenity_ when he has never known his elders to go for anything but. (How odd to have to remind himself that elders were not Elders.) 

“Then this is the best way to solidify your understanding of the technique,” he counters. “It has always been a good practice to teach others that which you are yet learning yourself - you shall never attain its Mastery until you have had your blindspots tested by others.” 

Obi-Wan sighs but sweeps his hand in a near-copy of last time at the patch of stone between them. “You know what this chamber is, don’t you?” 

It’s the first time he catches the glint in The Knight’s eyes - excitement, the joy of trying his hand at something that had been out of instructional favour for ages. 

“Let’s see what we find?” he offers. 

…

Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the quiet awe that _glitters_ in Anakin’s Essence whenever they take a walk through the Room of a Thousand Fountains. But he is looking for something in particular today. 

Some _one_ to be precise. 

It should, he thinks, not surprise him that it’s Anakin who finds the well of peace long before him. Little legs steering him off the trodden paths and through the well-kept vegetation until the small jungles of the Room swallowed them and the Force breathed in harmony - in _peacecalmlight_ and _safesafesafe_ \- and Obi-Wan’s shoulders sag as he brushes over the familiar (long-awaited) presence of-- 

“Knight Kenobi!” 

\-- _Feemor_. 

He has grown older since he’d last seen him. Exotic climates and the delicate nature of his missions weathering his skin but unable to erase the bright gleam in the blue eyes that find his. Unable, too, of breaking him of his habit of digging in the soil. 

Obi-Wan accepts his hands in spite of the dirt on them. (Takes them maybe especially because of it.) 

“Hello Feemor,” he greets quietly. Wishes he had the familiarity to lean against the man who would have once been his Knight-Brother and is now something much more secretly coveted. He reaches his hand for Anakin, feels the brightness of his padawan’s Force even behind his closed eyelids. 

“May I present to you my padawan Anakin Skywalker?” 

Feemor hums. Blue eyes curious when he kneels to find the equally fair countenance of the youngling. “You’re the one who flew a fighter into a _Lucrehulk_ and lives to tell the tale of it, or so I’ve heard.” 

Anakin _beams_ with the praise - so rarely given to him within the Temple where Knights and Masters held the boy to a standard that would have been age-appropriate if not for his unconventional history - and Obi-Wan’s heart warms with the smile-deep wrinkles in the corners of Feemor’s eyes. 

He should not have fretted as he had. Not when Feemor had taken a look at a freshly returned once-again-padawan after they’d denied the Order and asked them to teach him Battle Meditations way back when. 

“Do you think you can teach me that?” Anakin’s voice tears him out of his musings with a spike of humour in the Force and Obi-Wan may not have noticed what the talk had been about but given Feemor’s rising eyebrows and the way his bright-blue-shining eyes wander to meet his, he has an inkling. 

“I’ve taught your Master. I don’t think--” 

No, Obi-Wan thinks. This won’t do. He puts a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, gives him a smile that Feemor should know and that Anakin will learn. “No matter what he says, Anakin, Knight Feemor is the best Master you could want in this. A wise choice, my Padawan.”

...

Later, when Anakin is still busy sinking his hands and his Self into the soils of the Room, Obi-Wan’s muscles will relax into the presence of Feemor’s tall, warm silhouette just behind-and-to-the-left of him. His shoulders only reach the chest of the tall blond and he feels _safe_ for the first time since he’s come back from Theed. 

“You needn’t flatter me for something I was all too willing to do,” his friend’s deep rumble reaches him. A confidential confession - quiet to not disturb the freshly-minted-padawan in his work. 

He won’t, he muses, get another chance so soon again and thus, when Obi-Wan turns to catch his eyes, chin tilted just _enough_ , he lets his shoulder brush against the center of the other. Pointedly doesn’t wonder about all the points of contact between them because if he does his thoughts might betray him and smiles instead. 

“You hear it rarely enough that I don’t think a bit of flattery is amiss with you.” 

  
  
  


[He does not say _my friend_ and he doesn’t think that this is lost on the other man. Not if he is to be judge of the look he is thrown, or the sudden darkening of freckles over a fair nose, or the way a leg shifts forward - just enough to press against his side more firmly.] 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning to finish emptying out my Cup and Bowl after a Side-Step :) Rather content with this


	26. [T] On a scale of 1 to Skywalker...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jedi free fall with impressive robe-swirl & majestic theatrics with Shaak Ti/Echo/Fives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Order 66 never happens and the clones defect from the Republic with a huge middle-finger to the Chancellor-almost-turned-Emperor and take to Kamino to get the rest of their littles. This is not always well received and a battle springs up in Tipoca. Echo and Fives barricade the doors to the hangar-bay to get their vod’ik’e to safety. Which, however, leaves the two of them to defend the barricade. 
> 
> Now Echo and Fives both know they should be dead already. They don’t fuck’n mind if it’ll be for this. For seeing their littles off and giving them a chance to live a brighter future than that which has been dealt to them. 
> 
> But then... Shaak.

+++

“Colt,” they agree. 

“Only Colt could be so ballsy as to pull the little ones out from under your arm, sir,” Echo elaborates with a pensive mue from behind Fives. “And he’d likely be familiar enough to you that it wouldn’t raise any alarms.” 

It does show, she thinks, that her two ARC-troopers have worked with Jedi before. And Togruta at that. 

“I should have a word with him,” she muses, nose carefully pushing into the suprasternal divot of Fives chest. He still tastes of the metallic tang of blood-pain-injury, but there is another scent there too. The sweet mélange of safe-ease-happy that spurs her on even as his breath whooshes against the dip of her montrals when her skin touches his. 

It is most heartwarmingly endearing how excited the two of them are about her presence. How little of their hard-earned battle-experience they draw on in these situations among the three of them. Shaak sighs into the hesitant caress of rough fingers down her lek - a gentle massage that drains tension from her as sure as a good meditation would. 

“Be nice,” Fives hums. “Heard he felt real bad about leaving you out of the loop.” 

“As he should,” Echo counters. “She raised warriors with ‘im and Colt let himself be convinced she’d keep ‘em from freedom.” 

Fives pulls a mien at Echo’s strange wording - it’s a face Shaak can’t see but that she can feel in the Force, even if she can’t quite tell the reason for it. 

It’s odd, sometimes, how Echo and Fives - separately - would never quite appear as something more in the Force than a living, sentient being while, together, Echo-and-Fives _shone_ brilliantly with thoughts and emotions and iron will. In hindsight this may be the reason why _Domino Squad_ had been such a soft spot for her. 

The ARC trooper in front of her huffs, hand sliding more firmly around her shoulder until he can hold her closer and very quietly _not-think_ about _something_. Shaak would never abuse his trust to truly try to have a look, but she can’t deny she is charmed by his methods. There is something _pouty_ about his behavior, almost child-like, before whatever emotion it is leaves him with the whoosh of an exhale and a quiet sense of acceptance. 

His eyes find hers when he leans back into Echo. Fingers trailing from her shoulder and her lek until they are between them - harmless and innocent and battle-rough and Shaak would like to have them back on her lek. 

“We sort of feel bad too though,” he admits quietly. “Not like _we_ told you or anything… _Or_ said thanks yet for saving our _shebs_.” 

Echo snorts, amber eyes shining at her from behind Fives’ shoulder. 

“I _really_ liked watching you save our _shebs_. I am grateful you did and you looked _very dramatic_ doing it.” 

There’s a ping of a memory that shimmers between the two of them, blatantly shared yet moved like puzzle pieces until two perspectives made a whole - a whirl of brown robes, and the swooping sensation of something like _awe_ in their chests as they’d watched her summersault from the rafters to land amidst the horde of _besk’ade_ \- sabre humming. 

“Nicely executed,” Echo compliments with a wink. 

It should not warm her the way it does but there’s something about Echo-and-Fives that reaches her in a way only few others ever have. 

Fives hums lightly. “7 on a scale of 1 to 10,” he agrees. 

That sounds like an affront: “Only a 7?” 

Echo titters in response to her calm question and she thinks he’s _caught_ the emotion he couldn’t possibly see properly. “10 is a Skywalker,” he placates - arm twining over Fives’ hip to smooth an apologetic circle over her closest lek. It takes a lot of her hard-earned serenity not to purr. “And while your entrance was _theatric_ , we have yet to see any Jedi reach the same level of drama as the General.” 

She keeps his hand when he wants to take it back. Light fingers on his wrist - not a command, but not about to let their touch go to waste a second time. Echo stills and Shaak looks for something to diffuse the situation. 

“...Kenobi could come in close.” 

Fives, eyes locked on his brother’s fingers between them, drawing another hesitant circle on her lek, quirks a wobbly smile and his voice is much steadier than his heart sounds: “He’s a 9.5 - but that’s mostly because we’re not certain how much of his theatrics he hides behind a veneer of ‘I’m a Jedi Master, Anakin’. Skywalker must’ve learned it from somewhere though so…” 

His own fingers enter the gentle fray, palming the length of her lek and giving his brother more space to work with while Shaak closes her eyes against the frisson that spreads over her head, neck and back. She thinks he feels the sub-vocal purr against his bandaged skin. 

“Anyone between me and Obi-Wan?” 

A pop of _something_ in the Force - like a cadet-padawan snapping to attention in classes that they were certainly not falling asleep in. (An almost uncomfortable reminder of the world outside the Force swimming with peace and relaxation and healing here-in.) 

“Well…” Echo drawls at the same time that Fives stutters a breathy: “I mean…” 

A pause. Then Echo: “Rex told us about the campaign on Mandalore and it seems our Commander jumped out of a Lartie without a _sen’tra_ and _quite a way to go down_.” 

Either of them feel the curious tension in her at the mention of her former Hunt-Sister. The one who’d turned and walked after the Council had done her a wrong so grievous it had undone any trust she’d ever had in them. (Shaak cannot fault her for wanting to find her own haunts, but it had pained her no less to let her go.) 

“Ahsoka…?” she wonders quietly. Releases into the Force what she cannot name and accepts those emotions she can parse. “I shouldn’t be surprised I suppose - what number is she on?”

Their hands rub ease into her skin and draw the ache from her like poison from a wound. Fives’ eyes are sunset-golden when she finds them - trusting and open and she doesn’t know how long it will be until she won’t be able to hide her regard from them. [He wonders how long it will take for her to come to them, but that is not something he should dwell on with her so close to him.]

“8,” he replies. “But only because Rex wouldn’t stop assuring us that she was _perfectly in control_ for the entire debate of her status.” 

And there’s something _else_ there - a hint of _lovestruck fool_ , a sprinkling of _when will they_ , coated in _sugarsweetfeelings_ of _wouldlikeonetoo_. A good choice, she thinks, for her Hunt-Sister - and sinks back into the warmth of Fives’ embrace and the petting hands of the two. Now if only her third chosen wouldn’t be such a hard-head about it.

[“Colt, I am understanding of the fact, but nonetheless baffled by it, that you would not tell me of the evacuation of the little ones. That being said, I am not angry at you. But would you mind explaining to me - I’ve heard it just today in fact - what significance it should have that I would be raising warriors with you, Commander?”

“… _sir_ … Sir, who said that, sir?” 

“ARC Troopers Fives and Echo.” 

“ _Of course …_ Sir, I… ah… My Condolences, sir, on losing the last of Domino Squad.”

“Commander? I assure you they’re quite alive.” 

“No, sir. Not for very much longer.”]


	27. [E] In-depth Inquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rule 63 with Jesse/Kix

+++

“Sir!” 

It’s odd jogging up to the General when his blacks don’t quite _fit_. When they won’t _hold_ him like they have before and when they will chafe in places that have most certainly been snug but comfortably so. 

Kix does not look forward to the next few rotations when he’ll be swamped with a plethora of _new_ , odd ouchies from the battalion. He’s going to have to find Coric and the-one-trooper-he’s-not-training-to-be-a-medic.

They’re gonna need all the hands they can get for this. 

Skywalker nods at a trooper - fresh, Kix remembers; Stars what a kark up to have _this_ be your first mission - and excuses himself from their presence, turning to Kix with a face that he knows is begging for _any_ news at all. 

He’s not going to like what Kix’ll have to say. 

“Kix, any-- anything?” 

There’s an odd twitch in his voice and the General gets an odd look before he rubs at his throat, blue eyes just as dangerous in this face as in the old one when they lower with annoyance. 

Kix shakes his head. “It is what it looks like.” 

And it looks like some sort of joke. 

“We’re all… female?” 

“Outwardly at the very least, sir.” 

Which is, frankly, _enough_ for some of his _vode_ to have already come in with… _questions_. About identity. About… Stars he hasn’t even thought of how they’ll handle the psychological aspect of this. Or the _vode_ who’d identified as female _before this_ \- Oh! Oh that’s a good idea he can ask--

“How encompassing--” --right, General speaking. 

Kix pulls a face. Huffs. “While my research up to this point has been thorough, it has not been all-encompassing,” he admits, “and there might be medical caveats I have not yet registered. As to my current knowledge, however... _very encompassing_ , sir. How… How is the verdict of the Council?” 

Skywalker - true to his nature - makes a sound of garbled frustration somewhere deep in his throat, accompanied by equally inarticulate gestures and Kix figures… That’s accurate. 

(He needs more than coffee… He needs _Jesse_.)

\---

It’s surprisingly quiet in the barracks when he finds his way there. One quick look around proves that, indeed, all 501st troopers have found their way into the bunks and are either huddled close to each other or huddled grimly into five blankets. 

Rex is missing but that’s not necessarily a surprise. Kix would bet coffee-rations that he’d find the Captain in the Commander’s berth.

It’ll make it easier though - what he’s planning. 

“Kix?” 

Jesse is beautiful. 

Sort of always has been once he’d reached maturity and stretched out of the awkward, gangly phase that always came last. 

Even their most recent fuck-up hasn’t changed that. Kix hums into the greeting, knee sliding onto the mattress and hands already reaching for hips that are wider than he’s used to - sturdy and beautiful and _bare_. Because Jesse is always going to remain Jesse no matter the sex of his body (and Jesse couldn’t give a flying shit about regs when it meant he could sleep in the nude and feel Kix’ skin against his). 

Muscle-groves stretch from his hips to his ribs when he bends into the twist Kix’ hands exert on his hips, rotate him until the blanket slides away and he’s _bare_ to him and Kix has never necessarily considered females before this but-- 

“Kix-- What are you--” 

Maybe it’s just that it’s _Jesse_. Because he’s _hungry_ for his _vod_ when he bends forward and nuzzles into the oddly silken neck of his lover. 

He has no beard to scratch him with - and this realization comes only second - but the regulation soap smells enticingly sweet from Jesse’s skin. He groans quietly at the feeling of his lover’s hands, fingers drawing his zipper down until he, too, is bare - at least from the waist up and the slender fingers of the Scout feel _nice_ against him. 

“Promised the General encompassing research--” he feigns, leaning his weight down and parting his lips until he learns the taste of his lover’s skin - finding, almost too soon, a nipple and drawing it between his teeth until Jesse’s response becomes a squeak of: 

“ _Research--!_ ” 

He hums into the sharp touch of nails in his neck. Releases his prey to suckle it - just a bit, just enough to keep it wet and blow a stream of cold air on it, watching it pebble, watching the soft skin spanning the chest of his lover shiver. 

“ _Stars what the--_ ” 

Jesse bends into him, pushes his chest closer and how could Kix deny him this - when he coos an exotic octave higher than he usually does - when the buffet offered such a variety of new treats to explore on his tongue. His fingers roll the other nipple even as his mouth descends - lipping at scars that haven’t altered their position or their depth - and Jesse’s nails scratch at the buzz of his hair. 

“How-- _fuck me--_ How can _I_ help yoo-hoouuuu?!” 

Jesse swats at him when Kix dives for that spot under his ribs and a breathless giggle spills from Jesse’s lips. 

Kix can almost smell him now - from his new vantage point at one of Jesse’s hip-bones.

They’re rounder than he’s used to. Plush but strong and strange in a way that begs for exploration and Kix sets his teeth into the one under his chin - sucks and bites until the skin is dark and Jesse’s legs have opened almost as if unconsciously. 

“I have a few… _in-depth_ inquiries for you, Lieutenant--” 

His fingers hold the same strength as usual but-- not in the same shape. His nails are longer and the phalanges more slender than he is used to. 

“ _I_ _n… In-depth huh-ah?_ ” 

Jesse seems to enjoy the difference against his thigh - smooth and hairless - and Kix watches. Catalogues. Twirls his thumb in a circle close to where Jesse used to be _real sensitive_ and watches as this body, too, shivers and bends, squeezing a whine from his lover. 

He makes an agreeing noise as he noses his way from the hip-bone to the soft patch of hair in the vee of the legs - trimmed and orderly, almost as always - and Jesse’s breath hitches when the twice-broken bridge of Kix’ nose comes into contact with the protruding pearl of his clitoris. Kix hums again - just to test a theory - and rides the twitch of the hips until he can grip at the legs and still them. 

Jesse swallows. “Inquire… Inquire away” 

The last part of his sentence is a high-pitched, half-swallowed _ohmystarswhatthefuckKIX_ when Kix finally dives for what he is really curious about and lays his tongue to the warm, slick opening of his lover and groans into the first taste he has of Jesse-like-this. 

He could possibly get used to this. 


	28. [M] The Killing Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts AU with Anakin & Feemor 
> 
> [Rating for canonical racist slurs and general dark-ish-ness... ish...ish]

+++

[“You were my _brother_ , Anakin! _I loved you!_ ” 

“I hate you!”]

  
  
  


The whip-crack of a spell interferes with his - undoes the straight course of his Curse and flings it into the oblivion of the surrounding night and he looks up to find-- 

Blond. Melting out of the hallway behind Obi-Wan. A heavy, leather coat that snaps with the sharp, ground-taking gait of a man taller than even himself. Broad shoulders that twist into the deflection of another Hex, blue eyes blazing in the wan sheen of the moon above them when the figure finally emerges.

“Feemor.” 

The name cuts his tongue, tears at his vocal chords. One of _theirs_ and here he is, pouring his poison in defense of the _Mudblood_. 

Another Hex that the man whips into nothingness. _Defense_. Anakin grins darkly. It seems this, at least, had not been a ruse. The blond is not strong enough to reach for the Dark - not strong enough to reach for the Light either. Dithers on the thin path between them, unknowing of his vulnerability. 

“You will lose if you fight me,” he snarls. Feels the pounding of the moon in the back of his mind, a head-ache threatening to take over, the curse too close to the surface. He barely swallows around the sharpness of his own fangs. 

“If it means he gets to survive so be it,” the other snarls with blunt teeth. A mutt. An abomination among their pack - always had been; but one Anakin had been willing to overlook-- if only for The Master, but now--

“You would give your life for a _Mudblood_?” 

For one who would never even be strong enough to bear their curse and _live_. One who would succumb to the fire of its poison as soon as the first moon were full. One who is so _weak_ even now his slim stature is hidden behind the behemothian one of Feemor.

The blond growls. A fearsome sound even from one who had never turned - a rumble of threat from low in his gut and Anakin’s hackles rise in response to the aggression. 

“And if I had a thousand of them, I’d lay them all down for his survival.” 

…

A howl and then-- 

_blood_. 

  
  



	29. [T] Master Yoda's Stew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master Yoda's Stew with Wolffe & Ahsoka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *makes a so-so-motion with the hand* Eh

+++  
  


_ Cody knows _ . It couldn’t, Obi-Wan knows, be anything else than that. 

_ Somehow _ his good, loyal, level-headed Commander had gotten his hands on data of Melida/Daan and had gotten it into his head that Obi-Wan needed  _ protection _ . Which-- 

“Commander,  _ protecting you _ is  _ my  _ duty.” 

His argument should not hold less weight to it simply because of the neck-brace Helix had snapped onto him for the decidedly uncomfortable landing they’d just barely survived. It goes to show how well Cody knows him - truly - that his Commander doesn’t do anything more than raise a perfectly shaped brow that speaks so much more than the mouth of this man does. 

“Sir, all due respect, it’s what we were made for you can’t out-order genetical engineering.” 

Obi-Wan doesn’t even bother to hide his aggravation. “I can  _ try _ ,” he counters with a glower when the Commander sets the plates down between them. 

It’s entirely  _ unnecessary _ to have  _ anyone _ protecting him. He’s a  _ Jedi _ . He’s well-protected by the Force alone. And none of his heroic - strong, loyal, kind,  _ human _ \- troopers should have it stuck in their head that he, as a  _ General _ , should warrant more protection than any of them. 

Cody pointedly doesn’t sigh and pushes the plate at him. “Eat before you do, General. Onion put a lot of spice in that. It’s  _ yai’yai _ and  _ heturam _ and he will cry if you don’t honour his effort.” 

...

Wolffe wishes arguing with Ahsoka were as easy. But the little Commander held a grudge like nobody’s business and she’s still sour -  _ hurtashamedangry _ \- over the brothers she’d lost on the battlefield when the 41st had had to swoop in to get out the ones that they could grab. 

[Her men had  _ pushed her at him _ . Knowing what was coming. Knowing they wanted her out. Wolffe knows their thoughts intimately. He just hasn’t found the words to make her understand it. Yet.]

And maybe because he really is an ass, but also maybe because he needs  _ some _ way of seeing just  _ how _ devastating the loss had been to her when asking is… out of the question, he gets a generous helping of Onion’s Stew for himself and a second one for the tiny Commander. 

Onion slips him a small pack of dried beef jerky with a look over his shoulders and doesn’t say a word. 

Only Ahsoka digs into Onion’s Stew with the gusto of a Shiny Trooper coming off Kamino and having a taste of that properly spiced fare for the first time. 

The bridge of her nose dews with pearls of sweat and still she goes on, spooning one mouthful after another until the plate -  _ his plate _ , because she hadn’t  _ waited _ for him to deal out their portions - is empty and Wolffe can’t help but wonder--

“Isn’t your species supposed to be  _ sensitive  _ to hot spices?” 

It’s the first time Ahsoka actually looks at him. Well, him and the crinkling pack of beef jerky. But since he’s been assigned as her temporary guard while Skywalker was in the med-bay and Kenobi nursed a neck-that-should-have-broken their  _ vod’ika _ hadn’t spared him even the barest look. She does now. 

Tired and focussed on the treats that are revealed by the non-descript silver-golden foil, but it’s the first time he actually gets a proper look of her face - her eyes. 

Her markings draw together on her forehead. “Yes?” she tries. Uncertain herself.

“Master Ti is always very careful with her fare,” she finally admits, reaches for a piece of jerky and slaps at his hand when he twitches just far enough to tease a retreat. Her eyes find his. 

“I suppose. Why?” 

Wolffe’s brow raises and his eyes look to the very empty plate in front of her. It’d been spicy enough for her to start  _ sweating _ . By all accounts, she should have needed at least  _ bread _ or something  _ cooling _ \- something  _ gentle _ for her delicate taste-buds. Ahsoka chews her strip of jerky and shrugs. 

“Onion puts a lot of work in his stew,” she allows. “But it’s nothing against Master Yoda’s Stew.” 

[Little does she know, these words spark an almost violent interest in said dish. As well as a rumour the venerated Grandmaster of the Order is not wont to live down anytime soon.] 

...

“With compliments from the General,” Thire says when he thunks the two containers onto the table between them and turns to Ahsoka. “He said to send you greetings and was very pleased by your asking for  _ Secondses _ as he said.” 

[His  _ General _ had cackled the most unholy of cackles when Thire had come to ask and had gleefully announced that  _ Ate it all the last time she did _ , while filling two containers with the sluice that was, apparently, Stew.]

Ahsoka hums when she drags her container closer, lifting the seal off and-- Thire is curious enough to be caught in the waft that’s hot enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

“ _ Stars _ ,” Wolffe curses, already leaning away from his own cylindrical bring-along but eyeing the thing with something akin to the grim-determination he’d wear when facing down Grievous. He’d  _ do it _ but he wouldn’t be about to  _ like it _ . 

“Maker,” Thire fans his face, tries to hide his running nose, “ _ this  _ is what the General eats?” 

No wonder he’d made a face at their food - or stars forbid their  _ ration bars _ \- when he’d tried them once. Now that he thinks about it, the old grump  _ had _ seemed marginally more pleased with their cooking when Spoon had managed to wheedle proper food from Supplies but Thire had assumed that he’d been glad for the  _ proper food _ part of it. Not the  _ spices hot enough to burn through your sinuses  _ part. 

...The more you know. 

Ahsoka bends over her container - sweating, eyes leaking tears - and takes a delicate whiff of the fare. “It’s what he  _ cooks _ in any case,” she answers almost lackadaisically before she reaches for her spoon and gives Wolffe a look that’s as much commiseration as it is challenge. 

His  _ vod _ responds in kind. 

“ _ Ori’skraan _ ,” he rumbles and fekking digs into a Stew so hot it could probably double as live ordnance. 

...

“I can still feel the insides of my forehead,” he says quietly when he lies down next to her. The sweat is still cooling on his brow too, and his insides are still  _ roiling _ but  _ full _ and it’s a curious - gloriously curious - sensation. 

He has the feeling he’s just  _ this shy _ of a fully body  _ cleanse _ . 

Ahsoka, at least, doesn’t seem to be faring any better - if more quiet about it than he is. 

“What in blazes got you to  _ eat that _ in the first place?” he asks as he collects her against his blacks and gets comfortable. If they’re going to suffer - the least they can do is do it together. 

“ _ Fillonian Flu _ ,” she sighs quietly - like talking is a chore and  _ yeah _ , he gets that. Every breath he takes is a new spark of fire to his mouth and nose. 

“‘was so desperate to taste or smell or feel  _ anything _ that it sounded like an excellent idea and you know--” she shrugs, deeper into his embrace, “The day after I showed real improvement. Whole battalion was happy.” 

He regrets the snort of amusement because his nose  _ tingles _ something  _ awful _ but he can actually see that happening. “‘Cause it burned out any illness?” 

Ahsoka makes an ‘ugh’ sound and arranges her down-side lek before she cuddles back into him looking, for all intents and purposes, like she’s about to go to sleep and let her system deal with the Stew that way. “Maybe,” she allows.

He’s curious though: “And now that you’ve had it without the flu?” 

It takes a beat before tension drops from her shoulders and his  _ vod’ika _ returns to him with a whine. “ _ I can still taste it. _ ” 

He does laugh this time, tastes the remnants of fire and spice in his mouth and his esophagus. “Yeah,” he agrees, “Yeah me too.” 

  
  
  


[But when the Flu hits the 501st and then the 41st in close succession, Wolffe has nothing to lose and with a nod from the small Commander, sends a request to Thire for two battalions-worth of Master Yoda’s Stew - the men return to prime health in basically no time at all; even for genetically engineered troopers. To this day, Master Yoda remains a deeply coveted emergency contact of any medic in the field, facing a Company-wide illness that seems unbeatable. Thire’s General has yet to stop looking smug about this.] 


	30. [M] I do love nothing in the world so well as you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would eat his heart in the marketplace" with Obi-Wan/Rex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know what I'm doing but that's okay, right?

+++

The air is unsurprisingly sombre when he finds Rex. It could just be the weather – the grey, overhung day with its threat of rain that fit so well the occasion, or the odd, deserted location of the old chapel – beautiful, and especially ensconced as it was by the greenery, but lonely.

Rex is in his usual dress-greys. Homonculi are only worth so much to the Empire and the budget for their maintenance has been cut this year – again – and allotted to the speedier creation of more of them, given the current uptake in war-efforts against The Sith.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know how the Council of Lords and the Emperor plan to finance upkeep of _more_ men when they can’t even manage to grant their existing fighters more than one pair of dress-greys and a new few shirts every other month apart from their armour, but he supposes they’ll be… burning that bridge when they get to it.

Today the occasion calls for more… softness.

Rex’ eyes have found him the moment he’d walked up the old, rotten steps to the chapel and Obi-Wan cannot deny that his love looks splendid in the natural light. Oddly scrappy – though not merely endearingly so.

Not, he supposes, that he should be nursing such thoughts when just hours ago--

No, he thinks. He should not be considering Rex’ beauty.

“Love,” he says gently when he finally makes it close enough to wrap his fingers around the calloused ones of the Captain. He’s warm from the walk up and he’s grateful he’s taken off his gloves before, otherwise the little press of skin would be an embarrassing comparison of dry against clammy skin.

“Obi-Wan,” Rex is as court as always. Not… Not impolitely so, not with the way his own fingers squeeze, but brief nevertheless.

He tries to smile. “Things are quite a mess, aren’t they?”

That’s… an uncomfortable understatement but Rex only nods. Turns. Fingers falling from their counterparts and immediately colder than they’d been before.

“That’s one way to say it,” Rex admits – looks over his shoulder just long enough for Obi-Wan to get the message and follow at his shoulder.

Rex steers them away from the chapel and onto the near-overgrown path behind it.

It’s a lovely walk. If a bit marshy in places but the blond steers him expertly through the undergrowth until Obi-Wan cannot take the silence any longer.

“You know that I love you,” he says – abruptly, out of the blue and coming to a stand in the middle of a stretch of forest where nothing is to be found except moss, rock, wood and greenery. And the two of them.

Rex turns, brows furrowed. “I’ve… never discerned it quite so directly,” he allows. “But perhaps I do.”

He makes to turn again but-- That’s not what Obi-Wan wants he needs to know-- “Rex--”

This time when his love turns around, there is something in the light. Something that he hasn’t seen before – and how _hasn’t_ he seen it before – something about those hard, flinty eyes that sits at odds with the warm memories he has of his love and when Obi-Wan comes closer he finally realizes what it is.

“Love, have you been crying,” he asks softly – doesn’t dare to lift his hand to the distraught line of his love’s mouth but tangles their fingers in what he hopes is a soothing sensation. Where has his mind been not to see all these little things?

“Maybe,” Rex allows in a brittle voice – smaller than it has been just a moment before. Swallows. “Maybe I’ll be crying a little longer.”

“Is this--”

Rex snorts wetly, “Yeah.” He steps away, lifts his hand as he turns and Obi-Wan doesn’t need to see his face to know that this is composure at its breaking point. “Yeah, this is because of the entire… mess, back there.”

Yes.

Mess.

“Stars what I wouldn’t do for justice right now,” his love huffs – leans his forehead against the wet bark of an old tree that’s so gnarled Obi-Wan doesn’t think anyone would be able to divine its original species. He certainly cannot.

“Justice,” he echoes. “I do believe Ahsoka does deserve that.”

A hollow, _ha_ of a laugh spills from Rex and Obi-Wan quietly berates himself that Ahsoka deserves a whole lot more than merely justice. For future reference he will retain this thought.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks instead of trying to explain his blunder. The Homunculi are of a surprisingly grounded stock, words will rarely sway them as thoroughly as actions will.

“Nothing I can ask of you,” Rex replies as he turns – not composed, not really, but no longer a face of tragedy.

“Rex, please, you must know--” he halts, briefly, steps back from where he’s almost reached for the Captain, fingers rolling into a loose, restrained, fist at his chest. “You must know that I would do anything for you if only you said the words.”

Rex’ eyes shine oddly in the sombre light of the forest. Not the reflecting orbs of a deer, but the golden-amber irides of a hunter that come too late as a warning. Obi-Wan knows that these men can be dangerous. He’s led enough of them into battle and through to the claim of victory to know exactly just how vicious they can be.

And how heartbreakingly loyal.

His love shakes his head. “You can’t,” he sighs wearily as he takes a seat on the round crop of stone closest to him

Obi-Wan switches tactics. “Can a Lord do it?” he asks instead and Rex looks chagrined when he responds.

“It is a Lord’s office,” he allows and then, because he’s _obstinate_ (and doesn’t Obi-Wan love him for that as well), “But not yours.”

He just doesn’t love it in this moment.

“ _Stars curse it, Rex_ ,” he growls as he throws his hands up, “I _love you_.” - _-_ _di’kut_ _._ He doesn’t say.

“I would renounce the Order for you! I would take as many battalions as would listen to me to desert with you – _if only you asked_! So _please_ , please my heart, for the sake of our feelings as we have acknowledged them, let me help. How can I do anything right by you if I cannot stand by you in this time?”

It’s a solid entreaty he feels. Emotional. Yet rational with it. Obi-Wan thinks he’s done well, well enough, in fact, that Rex sighs a big exhale as he allows Obi-Wan to step closer and--

“Then would you kill Anakin.”

What?

“I… Rex, I… No.”

_What?_

Rex makes a sound, low in his throat, hides his face in his palm. “Fine then. I’ll need you to keep your words of-- of whatever it was that you smeared around my mouth like honey.”

“ _Rex,_ ” he really does have to insist. His head turns and his heart aches and he’s always been torn into opposing directions but this time-- “He can still be saved!”

“ _I said_ \--” The Captain glowers at him with all the anger he’s seen in his men on the battlefield. He’s never thought he’d have to face it. “Keep them,” Rex growls.

“Are you even _listening_ to yourself?” he mocks then, “ _He can still be saved?_ What _nonsense_ \--?! What utter and complete _idiocy_ from a man who fashions himself to be a _Lord_! And an _educated one at that_!”

He needs to take a seat.“I’m not sure--”

Rex snorts with bared teeth and glinting eyes. “You’re not sure you _follow_ or you’re not sure _about your actual feelings for me_?”

Obi-Wan stills. Narrows his eyes. That is inordinately unfair both to himself as well as to Rex. Nothing he says now could possible lead them anywhere productive. Silence stretches between them – only the wind sighs through the tree-tops and Obi-Wan realizes with sudden clarity that the foot-path now separates them.

“Rex--”

“ _Shut!_ ” the Captain bellows in the same tone Cody uses for Shinies when they haven’t managed to obey an order that had been clearly given and received. Obi-Wan recoils, quiet.

“Do you know--” the blond starts, fingers digging into his temples, “Do you-- _No_. You can’t. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

But he _wants to_. “Understand what, Rex? My dear, _please_ \--”

He doesn’t know what it is that’s gotten through to the blond. But where just before the rage of a Homunculus had replaced all tender feelings in his love, this time, he sees a man in its place.

Tired of being unheard no matter how loud he screamed. Tired of losing brethren. Tired of losing a war that had never been his choice to fight. Tired even of this conversation that demanded resources from him he’d never had the time or liberty to build.

“If I were anything else than I am,” he starts and Obi-Wan finds his eyes with their dark, fatigued circles underneath and listens. “ _Anything._ Anything more than what I am-- an unconsenting _servant_ to this-- this t _erribly corrupt and rotten Empire_ , which does not even have the _courtesy_ to regard me as a sentient being when _I lead my men to death_ for _their war_ \--!”

Rex takes a breath, shivers with anger and lets it go.

“If I had any less responsibility to my men-- And if I were taken as a fully sentient being by the laws of this laughable Empire – granted all liberties as such-- For that which he has done unto my sister – I would eat his heart in the marketplace.”

Obi-Wan’s heart howls.

“But surely,” he cries, “that can’t be the solution! _Rex_! What good will it do to her to kill him now! When--”

“When what?!” the Captain snaps from his seat, gesticulating wildly. “When all the damage has already been done?! Right! Because what do the Lords of the Empire _or_ the Order, care for the one youngling we have fought to raise?! The one--”

His voice fails. Thins and breaks, “ _The one person_ in this entire galaxy, who sees us not as nightmares and magic made flesh but _people_ , and she has been _wronged_ by your--”

“--my brother, Rex, _please_.” _Your General_ , he doesn’t say.

It’s painful to look at his love like this.

Shook and tormented by a storm of emotions that he knows the Empire would forever deny the Homonculi capable of feeling. Yet here he is. Watching a man fight his way through a torrent of feelings that no sentient should ever have to shoulder and doing it with the grace and iron-will of any bred warrior.

This is, he thinks with an aching heart, exactly why he’s fallen in love with Rex.

“I can’t possibly torment you by continuing our dalliance.”

What?

“Your brother has accepted the title as Darth Vader. After taking my sister as his student. Has broken his vows to her and turned her over to the maws of the Empire’s scorn and ridicule and _I will not stand for it_.”

Obi-Wan swallows. Searches Rex’ face for cues and finds nothing contradictory to his statement and-- “You mean that.”

\--Rex seals it with the traditional words that have belonged to the people his stock had been made of: “ _Haat, ijaa, haa’it_.”

It’s a _vow_ now. One that Obi-Wan knows Rex will honour – will have to honour – if something should not be done.

“Rex you’ll be court-martialed.”

Grim acceptance lines the contours of Rex’ lips as he nods. “And decommissioned for treason. But I will have righted the wrong that has been done unto my _aliit_. And the most defenceless person in this entire… _charade_.”

The Way opens before Obi-Wan in a fashion it never has before. A light and a purpose. A _reason_ to finally do unto the Empire as he had always dreamt of doing ever since returning from a civil war at fourteen.

“...Don’t.”

“ _Do not_ presume to tell me what I may or may not do, _General_ ,” Rex threatens. A low rumble in his chest – a threat. But Obi-Wan can see through the predator. Knows that even the most dangerous creatures have softness to them if only they let you see.

He shakes his head, rising from his seat, closing in this time and reaching for hands that shake with the strain of keeping feelings contained, “No, don’t--- I’ll do it. I’ll--” he swallows and it feels like poison in his belly but the way is so clear, the path he must take to avenge all those he has lost and will likely still lose, as he takes a knee “I’ll do it for you. A-And for Ahsoka.”

His fingers hook around Rex’ – clammy and cold, but warmed by the heat of the other.

  
  


  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Is That Taste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650522) by [basically_thearlaich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basically_thearlaich/pseuds/basically_thearlaich)
  * [A Chronicle of Early Failures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773969) by [basically_thearlaich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basically_thearlaich/pseuds/basically_thearlaich)




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